


Letting Go

by AreYouSittingComfortably



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Affection, Angst and Humor, Aramis Whump, Backstory, Brotherhood, Character Death, Character Study, Children, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Doctor!Aramis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family, Fire, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Kidnapping, Loss, Love, Parenthood, Priest!Aramis, Remorse, Rescue Missions, Reunions, Serious Injuries, War, the life that might have been
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 48,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5876059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreYouSittingComfortably/pseuds/AreYouSittingComfortably
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Aramis joins the monastery, life goes on for the people he leaves behind. Queen Anne finds comfort in their son, and her friendship with Constance. The musketeers go off to war. But as time passes, they all find themselves missing their friend more than they want to admit. Aramis struggles to come to terms with the consequences of his actions until he learns to channel his energy and passion into something more constructive. Eventually, he rejoins his brothers as a priest and a medic, using his language skills to spy on the Spanish. As the war takes an increasingly heavy toll on all our heroes, emotions boil over. An attack on the barracks and the town of Tours demands retaliation, and Aramis makes a fatal mistake. Back in Paris, the war catches up with Anne and Constance. After rescuing the women they love, Aramis and d'Artagnan take refuge in the forest of The Ardennes, and Anne and Aramis get to experience the life that might have been... for a while, at least. NEW CHAPTER POSTED 19/03/2017 & 21/03/2017 (learning to let go again).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Louvre, Paris, a few weeks after Rochefort’s death.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of the story (Chapters 1-6) shifts perspectives between Queen Anne, D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, Constance, and Father Emil (who knew the young Rene d'Herblay) reflecting on their relationships with Aramis, and then to Aramis reflecting on his relationships with them. It started primarily as a character study about loss, separation, and guilt, but then my imagination ran away with me, so Part 2 (Chapters 7-15) has turned into an action/adventure / love story (with touches of comedy because I love that element of the show). It picks up from where Series 2 left off, and continues into the war. Aramis-centric but with all the main characters. The friendship between Anne and Constance deepens until they become as much sisters as the musketeers are brothers. Aramis is his own worst enemy (and his toughest critic), Porthos is the very best kind of friend, Athos is torn between his duty as a Captain and the needs of his friends, and d'Artagnan is growing up fast and more than proving his worth. Trigger Warnings: reference to rape in Chapter 10 and serious injuries and violence in Chapters 11-13. Part 3 (Chapters 16-22) explores the life that might have been for Anne and Aramis, and the friendship between Aramis, Constance, and d'Artagnan. Part 4 (Chapter 23 onwards) explores their lives after the war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Anne fears for Aramis's life in the aftermath of Rochefort's accusations, and is relieved to find out that he's safe.

On the day of Rochefort’s death, Anne had told her husband that she couldn’t bear to remain in her former quarters after what had happened there and he had, without question, arranged new rooms for her and the Dauphin. That occupied her for a few days and diverted attention from the true cause of her restlessness – her misgivings over the war with the country of her birth, and the inescapable end of her affair with Aramis. She knew now, that nothing could ever come of it, and while she had always known it on some level, she’d allowed herself that flicker of hope, those stolen moments and glances to sustain it. However, in the aftermath of Rochefort’s accusations, she knew she would never be able to risk being seen with him again.

In those first few days after war was declared, she was haunted by fears of what might happen to him. Terrified that her husband might not be completely convinced: that an accident might so easily be arranged – a strap cut on a saddle, a knife in an alleyway, poison in his broth, it would be all too easy. And even if those fears proved to be unfounded, she was terrified that Aramis might be killed in the war.

It hurt, letting him go. In public she remained the image of the devoted wife and Queen, but in private she grieved for herself, for her lover, and for her son who would never know his true father. She would not let herself think of Marguerite, whose death she was convinced was as much her responsibility as it was Aramis’s and Rochefort’s and too painful to confront.

When Constance returned to the palace after the departure of D’Artagnan and the musketeers, both women were moody and withdrawn and remained mostly in the Queen’s new apartments. More than a week passed before the Queen could bear it no longer. They were playing with the Dauphin, the only thing that brought her any real joy, when he tripped and nearly fell flat on his face. Constance caught him and he laughed up at her, his eyes dancing with mirth, looking so much like his father that Anne’s heart caught in her throat.

Constance saw it too, and the two women held each other’s gaze for a long moment, before Anne finally whispered, “Is there any news?”

Constance didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “He didn’t go with them, Your Majesty. He resigned his commission and retired to a monastery.”

She did not say which one.

“They went after him of course, tried to convince him to join them, but he refused.”

She hesitated for a moment.

“He said he’d made a vow to God that if He spared your life, and his, he would devote the rest of his days to God’s will, and that he couldn’t break that vow.”

Constance watched as a million emotions raced across the Queen’s face. Finally she looked up again, and to her companion’s surprise, she smiled. “So, he’s safe? He’ll have a life away from all this… insanity.” She reached over and took her son from Constance, hugging him tight and burying her face in his hair. “He’ll be safe” she murmured happily.

For the first time in weeks, the Queen slept well that night.


	2. The Louvre, Paris, a few months after Rochefort’s death.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queen Anne reflects on her relationship with Aramis, and takes comfort in their son, and her friendship with Constance.

Anne thought of Aramis often. Every time she saw her son, she was reminded of his father. Anne tried to imagine him as a priest, but found it hard to reconcile the idea with the lively energetic man she’d briefly known and loved. Being with him had brought her a sense of peace and security, even as the world seemed to be disintegrating around them, and he’d seemed to thrive in those moments, seemed so vital, so alive, that she could not see him being truly happy in the stability and routine of a monastery.

But perhaps that was the price for his safety, and her peace of mind.

She’d wished a different life for him, and that wish had been granted. He was safe from the gossiping tongues at court, and safe from the war. She had no right to wish for more.

Anne couldn’t remember when she first saw Aramis at the palace, but she remembered quite clearly the first time Captain Treville introduced him to her as part of a company of musketeers escorting them to Lourdes. It was a few years after her marriage, about a year after her miscarriage. She had come to love her husband, as a sister loves her brother, but found their physical relationship challenging, particularly after the loss of her child. Louis treated her with the utmost respect but still expected her to share his bed once in a while, an act which Anne considered her duty to endure but did not enjoy.

The women of the court loved to gossip, and Anne suspected she was often the subject. She was well aware of the whispers about the Spanish Queen not being good enough for the King of France, and probably frigid and unable to bear children to boot. The whispers had hurt her deeply, and in an act of desperation she had once sought the instruction of a famous courtesan to teach her how to please her husband. While this had proved effective in creating new rumours to counteract the old ones, it did nothing to improve her relationship with her husband, who barely even noticed her awkward attempts to please him. Eventually she had given up, and simply played along when he required it. The women of the court had found new targets for their gossip, and the names Aramis and Marsac were often the subject of their whispers. Apparently the two musketeers were well known for their love of women, and for their discretion (which apparently exceeded that of the women involved).

Anne had paid little attention, but even so, when she was first introduced to Aramis, she had been expecting someone quite different. Someone shrewd and calculating, like the Cardinal, or perhaps openly lecherous and sycophantic like some of the courtiers she took care to avoid.

She had certainly not been expecting the softness of the voice that murmured “Your Majesty” as he bowed to her, nor the warm smile or pair of dancing brown eyes that greeted her from beneath a mop of tousled dark hair as he straightened up. She had definitely not been expecting him to address her in Spanish as he begged forgiveness for his late arrival at the palace, and had been wholly unprepared for the fluttering in her stomach as she hastily accepted his apology and turned away to hide the blush she was sure was forming.

The days that had followed had been agony for Anne. The journey to Lourdes passed without incident, and before long she was returning to Paris. Even though Aramis had accompanied the royal party there and back she had not had the chance to speak to him again. When they returned to the palace she chastised herself for her foolishness and vowed to put him out of her mind.

Anne had not seen Aramis again for more than a year, but she’d heard of him. He was the only one of a party of 20 musketeers that had returned from an ambush in Savoy. When she’d heard news of the attack she’d felt sick to her stomach, but when she learned he'd survived she’d almost wept with joy. Apparently, her feelings were not so easily cast aside.

When Aramis had returned from Savoy, he’d come back a very different man. For a year, he was moody and withdrawn, and there was a darkness in him that none of his friends had seen before. Treville only gave him light duties, and only then because he insisted on being kept busy. It was more than a year before he was seen at court again. The ladies whispered about his courage and discretely sought his attention, but Aramis avoided them. Anne hardly recognised him, he was so withdrawn and self-contained, a shadow of his former self.

Over the following year, with the help of his friends, the light had gradually returned to Aramis, and before long the ladies of the court were giggling and whispering his name again, but Anne never forgot the sorrow she’d seen in him. She knew how to recognise loss. She’d never allowed herself to believe that her feelings would lead anywhere, but fate had intervened to throw them together in their hour of greatest need.

It had been a revelation to her that being with a man could bring such comfort and such pleasure. She’d be eternally grateful that her son was born from this love and not from the mechanical interactions with her husband (which she’d had the sense not to refuse in his clumsy joy at her safe return).

Anne tried not to think too much about her night with Aramis. While other memories (thankfully) faded, it remained a vivid reminder of the life she couldn’t have. Thinking of it brought her such pleasure, but also brought with it the sharp pain of missing him, so she pushed it aside, saving it only for darker moments, when she needed something to hold onto.

His affair with Marguerite had hurt her, but she also recognised it for what it was – a man desperate to get to know his son, not to lose him. She blamed herself for not realising how deeply it would affect him and not finding some way for him to see the Dauphin, but after seeing the look on Richelieu’s face, she'd known she couldn’t risk it.

She wondered if she’d recognise Aramis now. If once again he’d become a different man to the one she’d loved all too briefly. A man full of energy and vitality, love and optimism, despite having lost so much. She simply couldn’t imagine his life in the monastery, but she hoped it brought him even half the peace and joy his son brought her. She wished he could share these moments and gave thanks every day for the incredible gift he’d given her.

In those months after the war began, Anne and Constance stayed close to one another. For the first time since coming to France, Anne knew she had found a true friend. She was deeply grateful to her companion for her support and discretion in the face of Rochefort’s accusations, and also felt a deep sense of guilt for Constance nearly losing her life over it. So, she did her best to hide her own sense of loss, and support Constance through the difficult weeks after her husband’s departure.

As time passed, she thought of Aramis no less often, but missed him less. They’d stolen so few moments together, after all, and now she had his son, their son. In a way, he was with her more now than he’d ever been.


	3. Somewhere in the south of France, near the Spanish border, nine months into the war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine months into the war and the Musketeers are missing their old friend more than they want to admit. None of them ever mention it, but they all feel like they're missing a limb.

D’Artagnan was exhausted. Another mission completed, several long days in the saddle, more villages scouted and sympathisers recruited, and he and Porthos rode into camp not long before sunset, tired and hungry and ready to fall into bed after making their report to Athos.

The excitement of the war had long worn off and the grim reality of it had reduced everyone’s morale to an all-time low. For the hundredth time, D’Artagnan wished Aramis was with them. His perpetual good humour and love of life would surely have lifted their spirits. Without Aramis, something was missing. None of them ever mentioned it, mentioned him, but they all felt it, as though they were missing a limb. The memory of him was a constant presence, yet he was not.

D’Artagnan missed his ready smile, his gentle teasing. If Aramis were here, he’d have someone to talk to about Constance, someone who’d understand how much he missed her, someone to rest a hand on his shoulder before regaling him with a story about how he’d narrowly escaped the wrath of some husband or other, or of how he and Athos had to rescue Porthos from a gambling den, to make him smile. D’Artagnan had barely smiled in the last six months, and then only after receiving a letter from Constance.

Porthos had given up smiling altogether, in favour of explosive maniacal laughter at unexpected moments. It unnerved the other men, and D’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder if this habit would have emerged if Aramis had been around. He’d always brought out a lightness in Porthos that seemed to have disappeared lately, leaving someone who seemed ready to explode without warning.

Porthos was poor company these days. Not even regularly fleecing the other musketeers at cards could lift his spirits. He was grateful for D’Artagnan’s company on their missions to outlying villages, and his attempts at conversation, but knew he offered little in return. Eventually the younger man stopped making an effort. Porthos’s respect for the young musketeer grew ever stronger as he witnessed his determination and ability to think on his feet and get them safely out of the difficult situations they often encountered, but he missed his old friend Aramis.

If Aramis were with them, they would have been riding out together, laughing about old stories and mishaps. He simply didn’t have that length of shared history with D’Artagnan. He missed Aramis’s ability to find the humour in situations, his passion for life, his warmth, and above all his kindness. When Porthos needed a firm hand to reign him in, Athos was the man for the job, but when he needed someone to remind him of the person he’d worked so hard to become, Aramis had always been there for him. It was Aramis that had taken him under his wing when Treville first recruited him, and showed him the way of the musketeers - no questions about his background or parentage, just acceptance – and Aramis who’d made damn sure no-one else questioned it either. In no time, they’d become firm friends.

He had come to love both Athos and D’Artagnan, but neither had a heart big enough to fill the gap left by his old friend. It was Aramis who’d always put him back together, physically and emotionally when he fell apart. Aramis who was first to spring to his defence in any situation. Porthos felt his absence keenly. What wouldn’t he give to be laughing and drinking with his old friend again?

Yet, despite the closeness of Porthos’s friendship with Aramis, it was Athos who needed him most. For all the times he’d been furious with Aramis for his amorous diversions and tendency to follow his heart rather than his head, for all the times he’d committed treason in support of his comrade’s more questionable decisions (like Marsac, Agnes, Emilie, and the Queen to name but a few) there were a hundred other times when it was Aramis who brought him back from the brink.

It was Aramis who took the bottle away and risked his wrath, and (on more than one occasion) his fists. It was Aramis who lead him back to the garrison and laid him down in his bunk. Aramis who saw the darkness in him, but didn’t turn away. Aramis who stopped him when his anger and self-loathing threatened his better judgement and were about to make him take a step too far, with Ninon, with Milady, or by ignoring an injured comrade. Aramis who had always reminded him that love and kindness were possible and to be cherished amidst everything else life threw at them.

Athos missed him dearly. He felt adrift without his old friend.

Athos knew he commanded the respect of his fellow soldiers, but it was Aramis that had always understood the mood of the Musketeers and kept everyone’s spirits up with his insatiable love of life and adventure, and ability to make them all laugh. In fact, before Athos had came along, it had been Aramis who’d set the tone of the garrison, Aramis that unofficially lead the men. It was Aramis that had helped him to earn their respect and allegiance, and Aramis who encouraged Athos to lead. Athos had never felt worthy of the role, but when Aramis and then his good friend Porthos accepted him, the rest of the men followed.

When Aramis had returned from Savoy, he’d come back a very different man. For a year, he was moody and withdrawn, and there was a darkness in him that none of his friends had seen before. A darkness only Athos could understand. He never questioned the version of events he’d heard from Treville, nor asked Aramis for his account of it, but he recognised the survivor’s guilt he saw in his friend, and vowed to drag him out of the darkness back to the light. For months, he and Porthos had taken it in turns to bunk with Aramis at night, their presence in his room calming the nightmares that haunted him with alarming regularity. It had taken two long years before Aramis truly recovered from the ordeal, but when he finally began taking pleasure in life again, it gave Athos hope that he too might one day move beyond surviving to living. Aramis had shown him it was possible.

Some of his self-loathing had left Athos after his near-reconciliation with his wife, only to be replaced by the pain of losing her a second time. He still found solace in the bottom of a bottle, but these days he was too tired to even lift it most of the time.

He wasn’t alone.

He could see the morale in camp slipping away daily, and was at a loss to know how to turn it round. He wished he could keep Porthos and D’Artagnan close, but there was no one else he trusted to fulfil their missions. He missed their friendship whenever they were away from camp, but he missed Aramis the most. Aramis had always known how to shine a light into his darkest places – whether he wanted it there or not.


	4. The Louvre, Paris, nine months into the war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance reflects on her relationship with Aramis and his relationship with the Queen.

When Constance had first met Aramis, she’d taken an almost instant dislike to him. He was too charming, too nonchalant, too… something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. In truth, she was jealous of D’Artagnan’s growing attachment to the musketeers, and Aramis’s unfailing politeness made him a more convenient (and arguably safer) target for her anger than Athos and Porthos. When he bought Marsac into her home… well, that only added fuel to the fire. The trouble was that striking him achieved nothing but a sore palm for her, while Aramis himself seemed to delight in it.

It was only when he brought Agnes into her home that her feelings towards Aramis had begun to soften. There was a beautiful and vulnerable woman, who might well have been a target for his shameless womanising, but instead of flirtation he showed genuine concern and affection for her and the child, not to mention showing his faith in her own abilities when trying to escape from the kidnappers. She was forced to conclude that she’d judged him a little too quickly.

Over time, Constance began to realise that Aramis genuinely enjoyed the company of women, and was the least likely to confine them to a traditional role. Of all the musketeers (D’Artagnan aside of course) he was the easiest to be around. His good nature and humour were the glue that bound the friends together. Over time, she began to realise that his handsome face and easy charm were as much of an asset to the musketeers as his skill with a musket and a needle. Whereas once that might have repelled her, now she understood its value. So, when the Queen’s identity was uncovered by Emilie’s followers, she instinctively understood why he was there, and was immensely grateful for his presence.

Yet she’d been wholly unprepared for the sight of the Queen in his arms, and for Anne’s confession that Aramis was the father of her child.

Given that she herself had been a married woman in love with a musketeer, Constance was in no position to judge the Queen. However, she might have found it harder to forgive Aramis for his recklessness had it not been for Milady. The idea that _she_ should be able to walk away from an affair with the King, an affair motivated not by love but by purely selfish reasons, and an affair that had publicly humiliated the Queen, had struck Constance as blatantly unfair. Why should the King and his mistress be allowed to do as he pleased, while Anne and Aramis were to be condemned for their love?

She had found her sympathy for the musketeer waver slightly when she learned the truth about his affair with Lady Marguerite. However, remembering his affection for Agnes and Henry and what he’d been prepared to risk to help them (not to mention her own difficulty in parting with the infant) it did not surprise her that he’d been willing to go to almost any lengths to be close to his son. She could not condone his actions, but neither could she condemn them. He was human and he’d made a mistake that had nearly cost him his life, and the Queen’s. A terrible mistake for which he would no doubt be atoning for the rest of his days. As for the former Governess, she felt only pity.

Constance would never forgive Rochefort for all that he had done, and had silently applauded the Queen when she’d told Aramis not to close Rochefort’s eyes. It amazed her that Aramis felt compelled to offer the Comte any dignity at all after what had transpired. Perhaps he was a more forgiving person than she, or perhaps it was simply an acknowledgement of his own transgressions that allowed him to extend such courtesy. Either way, it was a gesture that had done him credit, even if she herself had felt more inclined to spit on the man than show him compassion.

Nine months later, that was what she missed most about Aramis. For all his flaws, he always tried to find the best in people, and make the best of any situation. He had a good heart. She missed all the musketeers and Doctor Lemay greatly, but aside from her husband (whom she missed as fiercely as she loved him) it was Aramis she missed most. She knew he wouldn’t have made the decision to walk away from his friends and family lightly, and she hoped he’d found peace in the monastery.


	5. Douai, three months after Aramis resigned his commission.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis struggles to come to terms with the consequences of his actions.

Three months after his arrival at Douai, Aramis had not yet found peace. The days weren’t the problem. In the mornings and evenings he joined the brethren in prayer and during the day he worked hard on the land. He found some comfort in the physicality of the work, in the back breaking labour and the satisfaction of helping to provide for his fellow men, but the nights… at night he struggled.

When Aramis had said goodbye to his friends, he’d taken nothing with him but the clothes on his back. It had taken every ounce of strength to walk away from his brothers, and it pained him to let them go. Aramis knew you couldn’t run away from yourself or your history, but he hoped it was possible to redefine yourself, to master your desires and emotions and become a better version of yourself, and he believed he could do that at Douai.

As a young man he had come to know Father Emil, once the Abbé d’Herblay, now the Bishop of Douai, when he had first sought his guidance about becoming a priest, six months after Isabelle’s disappearance. So it had felt like the natural place for him to turn. He hadn’t stopped at the garrison to collect his belongings, but had ridden directly to the monastery to submit himself to the service of the God that had spared his life, _their_ lives.

He’d stopped only to eat and rest his horse, but not to sleep. The nightmares that had plagued him after Savoy had returned, but instead of the faces of his fallen comrades, he saw the deaths of Marguerite and Doctor Lemay, heard Constance calling out to D’Artagnan who couldn’t reach her in time. His mind dwelt on what might have happened if Milady hadn’t rescued him. He imagined Rochefort torturing him and forcing Anne to watch, forcing him to watch as Rochefort assaulted her. He imagined Rochefort tightening the chain around their son’s neck, choking the life out of him while they watched, powerless to stop him, then tightening it around Anne’s neck, and finally his own.

He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t rest, he could only pray and offer thanks to God, and hope that somehow he could make amends for Marguerite and Lemay. Every time he closed his eyes, the nightmares returned.

If Bishop Emil had been surprised to see Aramis, he hid it well. This was not the boy he had known. There was something much darker in the man that stood before him. Father Emil had not felt that monastic life was the right path for Aramis then, and did not now, but there was no doubting the sincerity of his desire to serve God, nor his desperation, so the Bishop kept his reservations to himself, at least at first. He took Aramis in, offered him some robes and one of the cells reserved for novitiates, and left him alone to reflect and pray. He watched him closely for the first few days, but saw no obvious improvement in his demeanour.

On the fourth day, his friends had arrived.

Aramis had begged Father Emil to send them away. He wasn’t ready to see them, was feeling too raw, but the Bishop had refused his request, and insisted that he speak to them. In the end, he agreed to see Athos. The thought of disappointing Porthos and D’Artagnan was just too painful, but he knew Athos at least, would understand why he couldn’t join them, why he needed to leave that life behind.

As Aramis had seemed determined to remain in the monastery, Father Emil decided it was time to put him to work on the land, in the hope that whatever was troubling the younger man could be healed with hard physical labour, but three months later, there was little sign of any progress. Aramis was physically stronger than he’d ever been, but emotionally still in turmoil. He looked even more haunted than the day he’d arrived.

It wasn’t the days, it was the nights. The monks and novitiates observed a vow of silence between dusk and dawn, rising at 4am for morning prayers and retiring to their cells at 8pm after supper and evening prayers. That left Aramis with eight long hours of solitude and contemplation. Eight hours to relive the actions that had so nearly led to his death and the Queen’s. Eight hours to remember Constance’s screams, while the Red Guards beat D’Artagnan, to remember how she was lead away for execution. Eight hours to think about his affair with Marguerite and how he’d ignored Athos’s warning and become involved with a woman for whom he had no genuine affection, using her for the sole purpose of getting close to his son. Eight hours to remember the look on Anne's face when she'd learned of his relationship with the governess. Eight hours to turn over in his mind all the signs he’d ignored that something was wrong, because he’d been focused solely on himself and trying to disentangle himself from a woman who never was, and could never replace, the mother of his son. Eight hours to think about how his own selfish actions and desires had caused her death, and that of Doctor Lemay.

Sleep eluded him, but the nightmares did not.

It was one thing to kill in battle, to dispatch an enemy to hell. It was quite another to condemn someone to it through selfishness and neglect. Aramis had always believed that taking your own life was a sin, and could not bear the idea of Marguerite suffering in eternity because of him. Her death was on his conscience, and he pleaded with God to spare her soul in exchange for his own.

Aramis, who had always preached that God was love, found himself longing for a vengeful God, a God that would mete out the punishment he believed he deserved. He found himself entertaining masochistic ideas: the thought of flogging his sins out of himself was very tempting. He never went quite as far as to look for a whip, but would have been disappointed had he done so. Father Emil did not allow such things to be used on horses, let alone men, and there would have been none to be found. Instead, he paced up and down in his cell, or fell to his knees and begged God to help him tame his wild and selfish nature.

He would not let himself think of Anne, or his son, would not let himself think of his friends. He did not deserve them. He prayed for Marguerite and Lemay. He became thinner, a little more grey began to appear in his beard, and the face that had once sparkled with light and laughter, seemed older, and perpetually bathed in shadow.

Father Emil watched, and grew increasingly concerned. While Aramis behaved exactly as was expected of a novitiate in the monastery, he attacked his work on the farm with a frightening intensity. A ferocity that was not compatible with a calm mind, or the soul of a priest or monk.

After three months, he decided it was time to act. He’d already taken several of Aramis’s confessions, and knew a little of what had happened at the Palace, but he knew there were things the younger man hadn’t told him. If he genuinely wanted a life of seclusion, it was time to clear his conscience.

He found Aramis repairing a wall in the fields. “Walk with me, René.” he invited, conversationally, but in a tone that showed clearly it was not a request. “I think it’s time we talked.”

Aramis hesitated, every instinct urging him towards fight or flight.

Father Emil pressed. “Do I need to remind you that you took a vow of obedience?”

Aramis put down the stone he’d just picked up. “No.” he said quietly. He would not run. He would not fight. He would take responsibility for his actions.

So Aramis walked with Father Emil, and began to talk. He told him (almost) everything, starting with Savoy, and the anger he’d felt at God and the world for two long years. He talked about how his friends had helped him heal and how he’d renewed his faith, and about the Cardinal’s mistress who helped him love again - and died for it. He talked about finding Isabelle and losing her again, and of his affair with the Queen, and the birth of their son. He talked about the lives he’d risked through his selfishness, and the lives he’d taken as a soldier, and finally, when he could avoid it no longer, he spoke of Marguerite and Lemay.

The Bishop listened carefully. He’d always known that love was both Aramis’s strength and weakness, and this was the main reason why he’d never felt the young man with such passion for everything would make a good priest, but he’d never imagined it would lead him to commit treason with the Queen! In a convent, no less! He crossed himself unconsciously, and offered up a silent prayer for Isabelle, but let Aramis speak without interruption.

When Aramis finally fell silent, the Bishop spoke up. “We have no secrets here, Aramis, but just this once, I think it best we keep this to ourselves. The fewer people know, the better for everyone.”

Aramis nodded.

“After today, we will not speak of it again, but first, there is something I must ask you. Are you certain this is the right path for you? Do you not have a duty to your son? To the Queen? Are you sure this is the best way to fulfil your vow to serve God? Perhaps he spared you to care for your family, not to abandon them?”

Aramis stared at him in shocked silence for a moment. Did the Bishop not understand? When he spoke it was with a voice that shook with emotion. “Every moment I spent near them endangered them further. When Rochefort discovered the truth, she begged me to seek another life, for her sake if not mine, but I refused to abandon my duty, and it nearly got us both killed. I cannot put them through that again, I _must_ stay away from them. It was only through the grace of God that our lives were spared and I may never repay that debt, but I can try.”

“Perhaps,” Father Emil started slowly, “God does not seek repayment for his mercy? Perhaps he is more forgiving than you think?”

“I made a vow, and I must keep it.” Aramis stated bluntly.

“Do you believe God wants to punish you for loving, Aramis?”

“I deserve to be punished!” Aramis nearly yelled, “For always wanting what I cannot have, and then still wanting more. My selfishness has cost too many lives!”

Ah, thought Father Emil, so that was the heart of it. It wasn’t God’s forgiveness he needed, but his own.

“God will decide what you deserve, Aramis, not you, nor I,” he said gently, “but you cannot serve as a priest if you see this life as punishment. This is not your true calling, it never was… no, no!” he raised his hands to deflect Aramis’s protests, “I’ve never doubted your faith in God, but perhaps He spared you for another purpose.”

Father Emil was silent for a moment, an idea forming in his mind. An idea that would build on Aramis strengths, his need both to serve and to be challenged, his constant searching for more, for perfection, and his love for God and for others. Above all, an idea that might allow him to heal in the service of both.

“I do not think you truly belong here, Aramis,” he began slowly, “but I have a proposition for you. Will you hear me out?”

Aramis looked ready to protest again, but checked himself, and nodded, so Father Emil continued. “You inherited your mother’s gift for healing, did you not?”

Aramis frowned, confused. “I’ve developed some skill at cleaning and stitching wounds, why?”

“I would like you to train as a physician. You can continue to live here, and abide by the same rules as the other novitiates, attending prayers and mass and confession and continuing in your religious instruction, but instead of helping on the farm, you’ll accompany Father Augustin into the villages and assist him with his clinics. You may have noticed he’s not as young as he used to be…” Father Email paused to cross himself, “…and needs some help. I think you would be well-suited to the task.”

“I came here to become a priest, but you’re asking me to become a physician?”

“You came here wanting to pay penance, did you not?”

“Yes, but…”

“And did you not just tell me that you feel responsibility for the loss of Doctor Lemay’s life?” Father Emil interrupted.

Aramis nodded, miserably. Yes, he did.

“Then what better way to make amends than to train as a physician, and continue his work? When you’re ready, you can rejoin your friends in the regiment, as both a cleric and a medic.”

Aramis looked alarmed, he couldn’t go back to that life, to the service of the King. “What if I don’t want to join them?”

“That will be your decision, Aramis, but I’m afraid they will soon be sorely in need of your services. When the war is over, you can return here to continue as a novitiate - or not - and if you do, I will support you in taking orders.” He reached into his robes and pulled something out. “You should see this. Your friend asked me to keep it for you.”

He handed Aramis an envelope, addressed to him in Athos’s elegant hand. Inside was a single sheet of paper, bearing the words: “Permission to resign your commission overturned. Absent without pay until further notice. Leave may be cancelled at the discretion of Athos, Comte de la Fère, Captain of The King’s Musketeers.”

Aramis reeled. _Athos had refused his resignation? He was still a Musketeer?_ “Bastard!” he swore furiously, under his breath.

The Bishop crossed himself and reached into his robes again. “The younger one thought you might say something like that.” he commented drily, handing Aramis another envelope, this time in D’Artagnan’s looping hand.

“Consider this a verbal slap from Constance.”

For the first time in months, Aramis laughed.


	6. Douai – eighteen months after Aramis entered the monastery.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of Father Emil, Aramis finally begins to channel his energy and passion into something more constructive, and realise that there might be life outside the monastery. Helping Aramis also enables Father Emil to make peace with the past, and a long-held secret involving the d'Herblays.

It had taken another six months before Aramis had begun to sleep well again, but he’d accepted Father Emil’s offer and begun to train as a physician, on the understanding he could also continue his instruction as a priest.

At first he’d missed the physical work in the fields, but had swiftly taken to his new challenge. It had also given him the very welcome opportunity to ride again, accompanying Father Augustin on his rounds. The older monk didn’t mind if Aramis occasionally took off on their way back to the monastery, urging his horse into a gallop and allowing himself a few minutes of wild exhilaration. His father, Jean René, had been a scholar and teacher of languages at the nearby academy in Montigny-lès-Cormeilles, with a great love of horses, and Aramis had spent many hours with his father’s animals as a young man. Riding across the fields, he felt his spirit lift, and sometimes in those moments he felt closer to God than he did at prayer in the monastery.

We all seek truth in different ways, thought Father Augustin charitably, watching his apprentice dismount after a gallop with a look of rapture of his face.

As he’d always done with new experiences, Aramis threw himself into his studies, devouring the physiology texts that Father Augustin lent him and puzzling over the many unknown mysteries of the human body. It kept his mind active, presenting him with new ideas and challenges to mull over in the quiet hours after evening prayers. His mind was so occupied with the new things he was learning that he had less and less time to dwell on the past. Gradually the nightmares began to ease, and he found himself able to think about Doctor Lemay, and wished he’d had the opportunity to work with him more often. Father Augustin’s medical knowledge was considerable, but he was nonetheless a man of faith rather than science. Aramis encouraged him to soak his instruments in boiling water as Lemay had shown him, and both men marvelled at the almost immediate reduction in infections. “Truly a miracle!” Father Augustin proclaimed, giving thanks to God. Aramis suspected there was something more to it, but did not feel inclined to dispute God’s gifts with his mentor.

Father Emil was relieved to see the change in Aramis: to see the colour come back into his cheeks and the haunted look gradually begin to fade. There were moments, during prayers, when a shadow crept over him, but it passed, and the passion and determination he’d seen in the young René d’Herblay returned. Father Augustin declared himself very happy with his progress, and the Bishop was grateful for the moment of inspiration that had come to him in setting Aramis on this course.

His feelings towards Aramis’s mother were a secret he’d take with him to the grave. Yolande’s beauty, her kindness, her quiet strength... had been both a delight and a torment to him. Her extraordinary skill at healing both physical and emotional ailments was a gift for which the people of Herblay were profoundly grateful. In another woman, there might have been accusations of witchcraft, but Aramis’s father had been well respected and the family were devout members of the local church, so if anyone harboured reservations, they were never shared. Yolande’s disappointment in Father Emil when he’d dissuaded Aramis from becoming a priest after the unfortunate (but not altogether unforseeable) incident with Isabelle had pained him, but he could not go against his conscience.

The refusal was unexpected, for it was commonplace for middle class French families to send a son into the clergy or the military, and Father Emil found his decision hard to explain to Aramis’s parents. Disappointed, but determined to continue his son’s education, and keep him away from the many young women who seemed equally determined to win his affection, Jean René continued his son’s instruction in languages, training Aramis to assist him in the translation of religious and philosophical texts.

The day that Yolande had died in a tragic accident still haunted Father Emil. The whole village had turned out to help put out a fire at the inn and Yolande had been tending to a man’s burns when a section of the roof had collapsed suddenly, crashing to the ground with explosive force, flaming wood and debris flying in all directions. Yolande had been killed instantly, but Jean René had rushed to her side, trying to drag her to safety, and had been so badly burned in the process that he followed his wife a day later. Aramis had spent those final hours at his father’s bedside, using his mother’s herbs to try and ease his father’s pain as much he could as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Father Emil had stood by helplessly, unable to offer the grieving young man the comfort he needed, his own heart breaking over the loss of Yolande. There had never been anything between them, but he’d loved her deeply, and her death broke his heart. A few days after their funeral, when Aramis again sought his counsel about becoming a priest, which had always been his parents’ wish, Emil had nearly agreed, but he could not bear to spend so much time with the young man whose luminous eyes and wayward curls so resembled his mother’s. He had written to the Bishop to request a transfer, and had left Herblay at the earliest opportunity.

Aramis had also left Herblay and moved to Argentueil where his older sister, Yvette, who had married some years before, resided. They sold their family home and land, but kept their father’s horses. Aramis lived with his sister for several years and helped to expand and manage the family’s stables until, one day, a company of Musketeers rode into town. Not satisfied with the facilities at the local inn, they’d brought their horses to the family’s stables, and were impressed by the care their chargers received from Aramis – whose thoroughness and attention to detail he’d learned from his father.

Aramis, who was ready for a change, was captivated by their tales of chivalry and adventure, and encouraged by one of their enthusiastic young recruits, Marsac, he’d approached Captain Treville to ask about joining the company. He had enough money from the sale of his parent’s estate to purchase his commission and equip himself, and his skill with horses and the ability to speak several languages was enough for Treville to recommend him to the King without hesitation. So, at the age of twenty, Aramis said goodbye to his sister and joined the Musketeers. Over the years, many of the company’s horses, including Athos and Porthos’s trusty steeds had been purchased from their family stables, and Aramis always welcomed the opportunity to visit Yvette and her growing brood of unruly children.

The Bishop, who’d spent so many years trying to put all thoughts of Yolande d’Herblay and the temptation she’d presented behind him, found that spending time with her son did not bring him the pain he’d once imagined it would. Indeed, it strengthened his faith knowing that there was, after all, a purpose in God’s design. Love, he reflected, was a precious gift, and though it may not always be returned, it was always to be cherished. That Aramis had come to feel that everyone he loved would be taken away from him, as punishment for his inability to control his desires, troubled him, and he was determined to help him see that he was wrong.

* * *

 

As time passed, Aramis’s skill as a physician grew. Although there would be little call for assisting a midwife with a complex birth on the battlefield, or healing an infection caused by a deeply embedded hedgehog spine in a child’s unprotected foot, he embraced each experience as though it were a new weapon in his arsenal. Once a soldier…

Eighteen months after his arrival in Douai, Aramis finally began to realise that he still approached things with an eye to how useful it would be to the musketeers, and though he never rejected any opportunity for learning, he devoted a little bit more attention to the skills and knowledge he thought might soon be needed by the regiment.

In those final months in Douai, he began to think of his friends and his family more often. He missed his brothers and began to look forward to seeing them again. He imagined the conversations he’d have with Porthos and how he planned to make good on that promise to sit down and explain women to him. He wanted Porthos to find a good woman, like Constance perhaps – although she was one of a kind. Although, now he came to think of it, it occurred to him that she was a good deal like his sister before Yvette’s family life had taken her on a different kind of adventure. Perhaps he’d get the chance to introduce them. He looked forward to congratulating D’Artagnan on his marriage, and resuming their light-hearted banter. The Gascon still had much to learn about being a Musketeer, but Aramis had never seen anyone learn faster. Soon the apprentice tease would have to be retired – perhaps it already had.

He thought often about Athos, and wondered how a man so apparently different in temperament could understand him better than anyone. Well enough to know he’d find his way back to the Musketeers when he was ready, and well enough to accept when he wasn’t. He wondered if leadership had changed Athos, knowing it was a role he’d only reluctantly accepted even though he was born to it. Aramis wondered whether he still drank himself into a stupor, or if he’d reconciled with his wife after she’d helped them expose Rochefort as a spy. It must have taken a great deal of nerve to ask Milady for help, and Aramis owed Athos his life for valuing his friend above his own pride. He wondered how their relationship would change if he didn’t have to regularly drag his friend out of his drunken self-loathing, and now his own (admittedly sometimes ill-advised) amorous liaisons had come to an end with a vow of celibacy, no longer requiring his friend’s intervention.

He thought about Anne too, and realised that celibacy would be less of a hardship as long as he couldn’t be with the woman he loved. And he _did_ love her – he was finally able to fully admit that. He wondered if he would ever see her again, and although it pained him to think that he would never be able to have a relationship with his son, he knew that it was for the best. He would not be able to protect his family if the King ever had reason to suspect there was a shred of truth to Rochefort’s accusations, and he was not sure he could look at Anne or his son again without giving himself away. So, he allowed himself to continue to love her, to worship her, to marvel at the fact that she’d chosen him, a common soldier, to be her lover, and had offered him comfort at a time when she needed it as much as he. He allowed himself to love her in the knowledge that he could never be with her again, and thanked God every day for sparing them both. He often fell asleep with her gift wrapped around his fingers. It had caused them so much trouble, but he’d promised to wear it always, and he was nothing if not a man of his word.

He still had darker moments when he thought of Marguerite and Adele and how they’d lost their lives because of him. He vowed not to let anyone pay such a heavy price for loving him again. It was in those moments that Aramis felt most doubt about leaving the monastery and returning to the life of a soldier, but after eighteen months, the restlessness of spirit that had long been a part of him began to resurface, and would not be ignored. With the guidance of Fathers Emil and Augustin, he came to understand that there were other ways for him to keep his vow and serve God than from the confines of the cloisters. Slowly he began to realise that instead of being a curse that led him astray, his energy and passion were a gift that he could harness in less selfish ways.

Any of his friends could have told him that he'd been doing that as long as they had known and loved him, but it was a truth Aramis himself had forgotten, lost in his mire of guilt and self-loathing.

As time passed he began to focus on his strengths rather than dwell on his weaknesses, and when Father Emil returned his weapons to him and suggested he start training with them again, he felt a surge of joy at the thought of rejoining his brothers.


	7. Somewhere in south west France, about two years into the war with Spain.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhausted by the war, and missing Aramis, Porthos and Athos turn to each other for comfort, leaving d'Artagnan confused and indignant. A state they can't help but take advantage of.

Two years into the war, and the Musketeers were exhausted. Athos had visibly lost weight and D’Artagnan’s hair was matted into knots he’d grown tired of trying to tease out. Along with his tan from so many long hours in the saddle, Porthos thought D’Artagnan was beginning to look more like a Moor than he himself did. Porthos himself was haggard and too exhausted to even keep up his habit of playing cards. All three were deeply concerned about the others, and on the rare occasions they were all in camp at the same time, and not in the midst of battle, strayed only from each other’s sides to sleep, and not always even then, D’Artagnan discovered.

This habit of sharing a bunk had started long ago, when Aramis returned from Savoy and Athos and Porthos had tried to soothe his nightmares. After many long nights propped up uncomfortably in chairs beside his bed or cramped onto a narrow cot, they’d each quietly taken to stretching out beside him. Aramis inevitably curled himself around them during the night, consciously or unconsciously, they never asked, and it was never mentioned. It had become natural to them to seek comfort from each other in this way and they had an unspoken agreement never to turn a brother away. It was usually Aramis that came to them, or them to him. Athos had always suspected his old friend’s womanising was fuelled as much by his need to feel something warm and breathing beside him as it was by desire. More than once he’d found Aramis curled up in the stables with the horses.

Homosexual encounters were not uncommon among soldiers on campaigns, when women were in short supply, and many a Musketeer had looked longingly at Aramis’s warm smile and soft curls. They were not unaware of the nights Athos and Porthos had spent in his room, or him in theirs, but it was not discussed. It was nobody’s business but theirs, and most of the men had secrets of their own. However, the truth would have surprised them. There was never anything more to it than simple comfort. Aramis had few boundaries, but this was one of them: to lay with a man was a sin.

One night, acutely aware of his absence, and desperately in need of company, Porthos had walked into Athos’s tent and climbed into the bunk with him. He took the book out of Athos’s hand, blew out his lantern, and wrapped himself around his friend. Athos had stiffened momentarily: this was a new development for them, but Porthos ignored him, pulling Athos closer against him. Athos sighed and slowly relaxed into Porthos’s embrace.

D’Artagnan had seen Porthos slip into Athos’s tent, and paused to hear their conversation, but there were no sounds. Puzzled, he lingered outside the tent, and after a few minutes of no further sounds or movement, pulled back the flap of the tent to be greeted by a quiet but angry hiss from Porthos to get out because Athos had just fallen asleep.

He had retreated in surprise and spent a restless night wondering about the true nature of his friends’ relationship. It was not the possibility that upset him, the three had always been close in ways he still didn’t fully understand, it was that they never thought to mention it to him. Did they think a simple country boy from Gascony wouldn’t understand? That they couldn’t trust him? Or perhaps they thought he would think less of them? He seethed with imagined slights.

He was surly and taciturn with them both in the morning, and Athos and Porthos, charitable after a good night’s sleep, sat him down to explain.

“And there’s nothing more to it?” he asked, “Even with Aramis?”

“Aramis believes it’s a sin.” Athos stated.

“And you? Do you believe it?” D’Artagnan asked curiously.

Athos shrugged, “These things happen.” he stated simply.

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos, who grinned at Athos.

“Perhaps he’s worried we might turn our attentions to him, without Aramis to keep us on the straight and narrow. He does have that lovely hair, when he can be bothered to brush it. He doesn’t smell as nice as Aramis though.” he paused, “How does he do that, anyway?”

Athos shrugged again, “I have absolutely no idea.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Aramis. He always seems to smell good, even after battle, when we all stink of mud and sweat. Haven’t you noticed?”

D’Artagnan looked at Porthos in alarm, “No” he said firmly.

Athos continued, “Yes, it’s quite extraordinary. He has this warm, spicy scent that’s quite unique, and strangely attractive.”

D’Artagnan, disturbed by the turn of the conversation, failed to notice the tell tale twitch at the corner of Athos’s mouth.

“Hmmm.” Porthos inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and smiling happily, apparently at the memory of Aramis’s scent. “And those curls of his, always so soft… so silky…” he opened his eyes and eyed D’Artagnan with disappointment “not like this one’s matted mop. Still,” he continued, turning to Athos, “I suppose he’ll do if we clean him up a bit?”

D’Artagnan leapt up in alarm, overturning his bowl of breakfast gruel and cursing as it spilled all down his trousers.

Porthos erupted into gales of laughter, and Athos broke into a rare grin.

“Thank you, Gascon.” he smiled, resting a hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “I needed that.” He loped off, leaving a very confused D’Artagnan glaring at Porthos, who erupted into a fresh gale of laughter.

“You should see your face!” he choked, as he walked away, still chuckling to himself.

D’Artagnan stood there, the truth dawning on him. “Bastards!” he yelled after them, before shaking his head with a grin, and starting to clean himself up. It was the first time the three of them had talked of Aramis in over a year. It was also the first time in a very long time that any of them had laughed, even if it was at his expense.

He thought he might not detangle his hair yet though, just in case it wasn’t entirely a joke.

* * *

 

The good mood hadn’t lasted long. Within days they were drawn into a fierce battle with Spanish soldiers, that left several dead and many injured on both sides. The injuries were mounting up, and they struggled to patch people up. D’Artagnan and Mathieu, one of the younger recruits, were halfway competent with needles, but lacked patience, and neither Athos nor Porthos had the delicacy of touch required. The one time D’Artagnan had needed stitches from Porthos, on one of their journeys behind enemy lines, he’d wished he’d done the job himself, such was the scar he was going to be left with.

Exhausted at the end of another day spent fighting and stitching, he strode wearily into Athos’s tent, where he found Athos and Porthos trying to drink themselves into oblivion.

“It’s time.” he commanded, “Send for him.”

Athos knocked back his cup of wine and raised an eyebrow in amusement at D’Artagnan’s tone. “Already have,” he answered quietly.

“When?” Porthos looked up in surprise.

“Two days ago.”

Porthos and D’Artagnan looked at each other and then at Athos before demanding in unison “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Will he come?”

Athos shrugged, to be honest he wasn’t absolutely sure, but “Father Emil sent me a letter. He said he thought Aramis was ready. That he’s been training for some months now with his sword and pistols.”

Porthos and D’Artagnan grinned at each other. “We’ll see about that!” They both relished the chance to get the better of their friend in a sparring contest. It was rare either of them managed to land a hit on him when he was fully fit, but his reflexes might be a little rusty after so long out of combat, and D’Artagnan was every bit as good a swordsman as Athos now.

“How long before he joins us?”

“It will take nearly a week to get the message to him, and then he’s to return to Paris to meet with Treville and get equipped before joining us. That will likely take another week.”

“Two weeks?!” Porthos exclaimed impatiently, jumping up from his seat, only to sit back down abruptly a few moments later. “Do you think he’s changed much?” he asked quietly.

“I expect so.” Athos replied. “Haven’t we all?”

The three sat in silence for a moment, feeling the weight and truth of Athos’s words.

“On the plus side,” Porthos said cheerily, looking at D’Artagnan, “it’s probably safe to wash your hair now.”

“Probably,” added Athos, drily, “but two weeks is a long time.”


	8. Somewhere in south west France, about two weeks later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis finally rejoins his friends, but the war gets in the way of their reunion.

Two weeks was indeed a long time. By the time Aramis rejoined them, they’d been pushed back more than 50km as the Spanish’s superior firepower took its toll on more French towns. They’d barely had time to think about the long-awaited arrival of their old friend. Athos could no longer spare his friends for their missions to root out spies, and the three were fully caught up in the fighting.

They finally had a day of rest on a saint’s day, when the Spanish stopped advancing and merely held their line. Under different circumstances Athos would have had taken advantage of the lull to launch a sneak attack, but his men were exhausted and he did not think they would be successful in their current state without time to regroup. D’Artagnan concurred. He and Mathieu had their hands full with treating wounds, while Porthos oversaw repairs to their equipment, and Athos was busy trying to resupply their ammunition and food stores.

It would have been the perfect time for Aramis to rejoin them, but of course, he did not. He was still a few days’ ride away. When he finally returned, it was in the midst of a battle, and there was no time for pleasantries. He simply rode into camp, leapt off his horse and started tending injuries, not even stopping to unload his mount. He’d brought with him a fresh batch of recruits from Treville, and with no sign of Athos, put them to work setting up a triage station, so he could assess and treat the injuries in order of severity. Five hours straight he worked without a break, and only when the sun was low on the horizon did he start to look around for his brothers.

They rode into camp shortly after sunset, bringing with them a fresh wave of casualties. So exhausted were they, that they didn’t even register his presence. Athos and Porthos retreated to Athos's tent, unseen by Aramis or he by them, and it was only when the light of D’Artagnan’s lantern caught the gleam of a familiar crucifix dangling around the neck of a man helping an injured soldier off his horse, that he recognised his friend.

Aramis looked up, and for a moment they just stared at each other. Aramis taking in D’Artagnan’s dishevelled appearance, D’Artagnan marvelling at how it was possible for anyone on a battlefield to look that clean and healthy, and then they were both grinning and embracing. Damn it, he did smell good.

“About time!” quipped D’Artagnan, playfully slapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Not a moment too soon, by the look of things.” Aramis responded, his expression quickly turning serious. “Here,” he reached into a pocket and fished out a letter, “from Constance.”

“Did you see her?” D’Artagnan asked eagerly.

“I did a little better than that!” Aramis replied mysteriously, “Read it while I attend to this man. And make sure Athos and Porthos get some rest while I finish up here.”

* * *

 

A couple of hours, and a great many stitches and a few broken bones later, Aramis was finally satisfied that everything else could wait until morning and made his way to Athos's tent.

“Shhhh!” cautioned D’Artagnan from the doorway, “They’re sleeping.”

Aramis peeked inside the tent and saw Athos slumped on his bed on his back with his legs still on the floor, and Porthos sitting on the canvas floor, legs outstretched, head resting on Athos’s thigh, snoring. Both were still in full battle dress, minus their boots.

“Well, that’s new.” he commented, eyebrows arching in amusement. “Do they know I’m back?”

“No, I thought I’d let them sleep for a while, and wake them later for something to eat. Would you like to do the honours?”

“Sure. Why are you still here anyway? I thought you’d be on your way to the inn where your lovely wife is waiting.”

“My lovely wife neglected to mention which inn she’s waiting at, so I’ve been waiting for you to finish up so you could tell me.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Aramis paused to cross himself, “next time, interrupt me! I have no desire to be on the receiving end of your wife’s wrath!”

D’Artagnan laughed. “Actually, I had work to do anyway. Athos tasked me with ensuring the equipment was cleaned and prepared for tomorrow, but I’m done now. I just came to leave a note telling him I’ll be back by this time tomorrow.”

“Go, then! I left her at the inn on the main square in Monflanquin – it seemed like a respectable place. She asked me to bring her here but I promised Treville I wouldn’t bring her too close to the front. The town is well defended so you can expect to be questioned, but the inn keeper is expecting your arrival. It’s about 3 hours ride. If you go now you can make it there before midnight.”

“No, wait!” he called out hurriedly, as D’Artagnan started to take off. “Not like that! No wife needs to see her husband in that state. Come here.” D’Artagnan protested but allowed Aramis to wipe the dried mud and blood off his face. He’d pulled on a clean(ish) shirt, but completely forgotten about the rest of his appearance.

“Stay still!” Aramis laughed as D’Artagnan flinched when he attempted to drag a comb through his hair.

“Ouch!”

“Just because you’re married now doesn’t mean you should let yourself go,” he teased, “women appreciate a well-groomed man, and with so many gentlemen at the palace, and you so far away...” he frowned at a particularly stubborn knot, “When’s the last time you combed this mess, anyway?”

“Long story.” D’Artagnan mumbled. "Can I go now?"

Aramis nodded and D'Artagnan disappeared into the night with a wave.

Left alone, Aramis appraised his sleeping friends and after an internal struggle between joy at seeing them and wanting to embrace them, and acknowledging that the sleep would probably do them more good, decided to leave them be. He found his way to the mess tent where he ate a helping of something that could only be described as slightly preferable to starvation. When he returned to Athos’s tent his two friends were still sleeping soundly.

Suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness and emotion, he pulled off his boots and his tunic, stretched himself out in Athos’s chair, and was asleep within moments.

* * *

 

They found him there next morning.

Athos was the first to wake, momentarily confused about how a cat had gotten into his tent, before an old memory resurfaced: Aramis! Athos sat up, and there he was: slumped in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, white shirt impossibly clean, head tilted back, brown curls and beard only slightly greyer than he remembered, snoring softly in a way that had always sounded more like a cat purring than a man sleeping. Athos carefully nudged Porthos awake, and the two men regarded their friend fondly.

“He’s back!” Porthos whispered happily, grinning from ear to ear, and Athos smiled. They could feel a little of the weight they’d been carrying lifting off their shoulders.

“That shirt is way too clean.” Athos commented, drily.

“We’ll have to do something about it...” Porthos agreed, reaching for what was left of last night’s wine. Then he caught sight of the tunic Aramis had pulled off the night before and thrown over the back of the chair. A priest’s robe covered in dried blood and mud, and other unidentifiable stains from the patients he’d tended to. “…or not.”

“Not.” agreed Athos. “Shall we wake him?”

In they end they’d decided not to, and had a hasty breakfast before gathering the troops and riding back off into battle.

When Aramis woke his friends were long gone. The only sign that they had seen him, was a fresh tunic, as clean as could be expected under the circumstances, on his lap. He pulled it on, strode off to the mess tent, and then went back to work.


	9. Somewhere in south west France, about four months later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four friends begin to feel like their old selves again, and the tide finally turns against the Spanish.

Before leaving camp that day, Athos had instructed his desk and chair be moved into another tent to make room for three extra cots in his own, and when D’Artagnan returned from his brief visit to Constance (hair freshly washed and tidied by his wife), all his belongings had been moved there. He’d found Aramis at the makeshift hospital and watched in admiration at his friend’s new skills, and the calm efficiency with which he treated the injured men. The Musketeer regiment were delighted to have Aramis back and the other soldiers quickly learned to appreciate the soldier-turned-priest with the skilful hands and soothing manner who reassured them they’d soon be back on their feet.

Athos, Porthos, and the rest of the regiment hadn’t returned that second night. D’Artagnan fretted and Aramis prayed until a messenger arrived saying they’d managed to push the Spanish back and were staying to hold the village over night and would return tomorrow.

The next day, Aramis was up at dawn, and D’Artagnan had again joined him in the hospital, asking Aramis to instruct Mathieu and a few of the recent recruits to clean and stitch wounds. D’Artagnan watched carefully as Aramis taught them what he knew. His friend was thinner and greyer than he remembered, but had lost none of his vigour or his easy charm. He seemed calmer, but still clearly enjoyed a challenge. There were moments though, when he wasn’t busy, moments when he had a second to breathe, when a shadow passed over his face and he reached for the crucifix around his neck and closed his eyes. And every time he dropped his instruments in the boiling water he crossed himself. D'Artagnan suspected there was something more to this than seeking God’s blessing.

Aramis and D’Artagnan had both been asleep by the time Athos and Porthos returned to camp that night. They hadn’t intended to be, but Aramis had been performing minor surgeries for twelve hours straight, reopening wounds that were infected and probably still had fragments in them, and supervising the younger men as they cleaned up and stitched the wounds closed. When the regiment returned, Mathieu was there to meet them. Athos asked if he needed assistance from Aramis or D’Artagnan but the young man shook his head. The injuries were minor and he was confident he could see to them, there was no need to disturb Father René. Athos and Porthos raised their eyebrows at each other but said nothing. It seemed their friend had wasted no time in the two days they’d been gone.

They had found 'Father René' sprawled across one of the cots in their tent, wearing nothing but his undergarments and looking nothing whatsoever like a priest but for the crucifix around his neck. D’Artagnan was out for the count in the cot beside him. It amused them to notice that he’d chosen the cot on the other side of Aramis to where their own bunks where located, closest to the canvas wall of the tent. It was good to know they could still unsettle him even though his skills in combat would soon outstrip their own. After a brief supper, and perfunctory wash, they quickly succumbed to sleep themselves.

It was only on the third morning that Aramis, Athos, Porthos, and D’Artagnan had finally been awake and in the same place at the same time together for more than two years, and were able to greet each other properly.

* * *

 

After breakfast, Athos had left them to prepare for the next assault, with strict instructions to Porthos and D’Artagnan to put Aramis through his paces while he was busy – a challenge they eagerly accepted. And so it was that Aramis had found himself duelling both in turn, while they steadily picked up the pace. As anticipated, his skills were rusty and he was unable to land a hit on either of them, but if they expected him to tire quickly they were disappointed. Two years of poor nutrition, endless battles, inadequate rest, and badly healed injuries had taken a toll on their condition, while Aramis was leaner, stronger, and as quick on his feet as ever, forever twisting and dancing out of reach. He grinned as Porthos huffed in frustration, unable to land a hit, and fell back allowing D’Artagnan to renew his attack. 15 minutes later, when neither one of them had landed a hit on the other, D’Artagnan reluctantly decided to call it quits.

Aramis smirked, before gently reminding himself it was a sin to boast, and quickly complimented D’Artagnan on being the superior swordsman, acknowledging that it was only his own freshness that had kept him in the fight. He also took the opportunity to look over his fellow Musketeers, inspecting their recent injuries, shaking his head at Porthos’s terrible needlework on D’Artagnan’s shoulder, and wincing at the bruising down Porthos’s side where he’d taken a recent hit. Something needed to be done about his friends’ shape if France wanted to win this war, starting with their diet.

* * *

 

For those first few months after Father René came to camp, the regiment truly felt like God was smiling on them. The tide had begun to turn and the French army pushed the Spanish back, closer to the border. D’Artagnan and Porthos resumed their search for traitors and spies, travelling away from camp for days or weeks at a time. Aramis began to teach some of the men Spanish, at which D’Artagnan showed some aptitude but neither Athos nor Porthos had the patience. Porthos resented the amount of time Aramis spent tutoring others, time he wanted to spend with his old friend, but the new Aramis had a clear set of priorities that placed work above play, something Porthos had no choice but to accept. Not that he truly begrudged it, but it had been hard to be without his friend for so long.

Aramis convinced Athos to let him train up a couple of the young recruits he’d brought with him from Paris to tend to the less serious injuries, while he and Mathieu rode out with the soldiers and treated casualties in the field. Mathieu was a quick learner, and Athos noted with amusement that he had a serious case of hero worship for Father René.

Athos had came to accept his role as Captain but he knew the men looked up to him because of his natural authority and birthright, as much as the example he tried hard to set. He never truly felt like he’d earned it, whereas Aramis had always been a natural leader, without ever having to try. People were drawn to him because they liked him, and wanted to impress him. They wanted him to return their affection, to smile and tell them they’d done a good job, something that had always come so easily to him, but Athos had to work at. It was a huge relief to have his old friend back in camp, taking care of the wounded and the mess tent, and boosting morale. D'Artagnan and Porthos were invaluable in the field, and both great leaders in their own way: Porthos's incredible strength and determination inspired courage in others, and D'Artagnan's exceptional strategic instincts had earned him the respect of much older men, but when it came to dealing with people and improving the mood, that had always been Aramis's particular gift, and it had never been more welcome.

The communities they passed through also welcomed the presence of the energetic physician with a smile that made wives and daughters forget their manners, and husbands and fathers glad he was a man of the cloth. Aramis tended to civilian injuries as often as his duties in camp allowed, grateful for the opportunity to broaden his skills, and the donations of precious fresh meat and vegetables that flowed into camp were greatly appreciated by the soldiers, doing much to improve morale and fitness. A miracle if ever there was one, thought Athos, whose refined palate had detested the slop that had previously passed for food in the camp.

Neither Aramis nor his friends put people straight on the fact that Father René had not yet been ordained as a priest, and was still only a novitiate with dispensation to give blessings and last rites to the injured. Father Emil had counselled Aramis not to lie but not to actively discourage people’s assumptions either. It was a deception that left him somewhat uneasy, not least with his protégé Mathieu, but one he realised was as necessary as the many deceptions he had undertaken in the past to glean information and spare bloodshed.

For those four months after Aramis’s return, the Musketeers began to feel more like their old selves again. They might have been at war, but they were in it together, one for all.

For those four months after Aramis’s return, the war went well, and the Spanish retreated.

Then, just as they thought the end might be in sight, everything went to hell.

The Spanish navy sailed silently up the west coast of France, arriving in the harbours of St-Malo and Saint-Nazaire under the cover of darkness and swiftly moving up the Loire Valley to occupy Nantes and Angers.

The tide had turned again, and suddenly, the war moved closer to Paris.


	10. The Loire Valley, about 3 years 8 months into the war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war shifts to the Loire Valley, where tensions between the Musketeers and the Red Guard begin to mount. D'Artagnan acts go-between between Athos and Marcheaux. Aramis and uses his language skills to spy on the Spanish. As everyone's patience wears thin, emotions boil over, and Porthos has to try and hold Athos and Aramis together when things begin to fall apart. (Trigger Warning: reference to war crimes, including rape, in this chapter. Reference only, no details, but it triggers a strong response from Aramis, so I thought I should flag it).

The war had shifted swiftly to the Loire Valley and Treville had recalled the Musketeers to Paris for a few days to discuss tactics while the Red Guard marched ahead towards Angers. They were all happy to be back and able to enjoy a few nights of good food and comfortable lodgings, none more so than D’Artagnan who was able to snatch a few happy nights with Constance. Only Aramis was uneasy, the proximity to Anne and the Dauphin a continuing torment. He strayed from the garrison only to visit the apothecary, making sure he was absent when the King came to inspect the regiment. An unexplained absence at such a time would have been cause for disciplinary action in almost anyone else, but Athos said nothing. He could not blame his friend for sneaking away from his post as he himself had once done, unable to stomach watching his wife flirting with the King.

But Aramis did not avoid news of the Queen and his son entirely, which came to him in the form of Constance. He was profoundly grateful to know they were well and the Dauphin was thriving, but disturbed by how desperately he wanted to sneak into the Palace to see them inspite of knowing how much they all had to lose if he was seen. Constance could see the conflict on his face, and wished she could offer more than the little news she carried, but she and Treville had both agreed that it was best for everyone if the Queen believed him to still be in the monastery. Aramis himself had made her promise as much when they’d travelled together to Monflanquin. The war with the country of her birth was hard enough on ‘The Spanish Queen’ without adding to her burden.

The friendship between Anne and Constance had flourished and deepened and sustained them both, but it would not be true to say they knew all each other’s secrets, because Anne was sometimes privy to secrets of war that she knew she could not tell the wife of a musketeer, and Constance withheld information about Aramis. She never told Anne exactly who’d escorted her to meet her husband that time, nor did she ever mention the gratitude and remorse that Aramis had so awkwardly but sincerely expressed for everything that had nearly cost her life. The conversation they’d had was something she hadn’t shared with anyone, not even her husband, in those all-too-brief and not-to-be-wasted moments together. Constance was the only person to whom Aramis had spoken about his time in Douai and although he left much out, he said enough for her to understand that were fractures behind his apparently calm demeanour.

* * *

 

After a few days of rest and resupply in Paris, the Musketeers had departed for the former capital of Tours, where they had helped the city’s inhabitants to ensure the town and the river were properly defended to block the Spanish proceeding further up the Loire. They had established a base at the barracks, a much more comfortable arrangement than a tented camp. Athos and Porthos had remained in Tours, while Aramis and D’Artagnan had ridden on ahead to Saumur where French soldiers, lead by the Red Guard, had become engaged in increasingly heavy skirmishes with the Spanish as they tried to force their way upriver.

They’d received a predictably hostile reception from Captain Marcheaux who resented the presence of the Musketeers, but stopped short of rejecting the offer of assistance outright. Old rivalries die hard, even in wartime. Aramis had quickly found his patience tested by the Captain and was forced to say a stream of silent Hail Mary’s to try and quell his desire to punch the man, but D’Artagnan had handled the situation with surprising authority and calm.

His decision to take issue with a tree on their departure, punching it so hard that Aramis had to bandage his knuckles, was purely coincidental.

Athos had found himself taking command of an ever growing regiment, as more and more peasants stood up to defend their country from the Spanish. Porthos had taken on the challenge of training the new recruits; his strong presence and air of dogged determination a steadying influence on the young men from rural towns whose romantic notions of the war would all too quickly be dispelled.

* * *

 

Nearly four years in, and everyone’s patience had worn thin. The dirt, the death, and the danger had worn everyone down. Athos looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and was drinking more heavily than ever, yet somehow never appeared drunk. Aramis was concerned about his friend but too exhausted to offer much comfort. From dawn to dusk he tended the wounded and administered last rites to the dying. His smiles of reassurance no longer reached his eyes, and were barely distinguishable from the ritual prayers he offered up. The adventure had long since worn off. He was sickened by the filth of battle, and wanted nothing more than an end to the war and to return to the peace of Douai. His appetite for “ _dispatching people to hell_ ”, as he’d once put it, was very much diminished.

Increasingly, he and D’Artagnan, often accompanied by Mathieu, ventured behind enemy lines to gather information. Both young men had now acquired a reasonable command of Spanish and, being from Gascon, were of dark enough complexion to pass as Spaniards. Aramis’s own features and mastery of the language meant the priest and physician from Pamplona and his two companions were rarely questioned. Who would question the loyalty of a priest removing a bullet from your shoulder, or think twice about answering a physician’s questions about the army’s progress when he was splinting your leg? Nevertheless, they were dangerous missions and Athos deeply regretted the necessity of placing his friends in such danger. On the one hand, the longer they spent behind enemy lines, the more they were likely to be accepted. On the other, the longer they remained under cover, the more lies they had to tell and the greater the chance of slipping up. The information they were able to gain was invaluable, but Athos was never at ease until they were safely back in camp.

The friends had had very few moments to themselves, and on the rare occasions they did, managed to do little more than down a few bottles of wine and play the occasional hand of cards. Nobody had any money, so they played mainly for the privilege of not having to clean each other’s boots. Aramis and D’Artagnan were more often than not on the losing end of the games. Porthos never lost.

For over a year the battles had continued, the long-standing enmity between the Musketeers and the Red Guards simmering below the surface of what appeared to the enemy to be a united front. France had maintained a strong hold on Tours, Laval, and Le Mans, effectively blocking the Spanish from reaching Paris, but raiding parties continued to harass the smaller towns and villages around Saumur and La Flèche and Rennes changed hands several times. For every step forward, they took another step back.

The relationship between the Musketeers and the Red Guards continued to deteriorate, until one day, infuriated by a dereliction of duty by one of the Guards which had nearly cost him several men, Athos snapped and knocked out Marcheaux’s second in command in cold fury.

“Feel better?” Porthos asked drily, both amused and concerned.

Athos shrugged, “I’d feel a lot better if that had been Marcheaux.” he scowled.

Marcheaux marched into the Musketeers camp later that day, seething with indignation, to confront Athos. Athos, in contrast, was icily calm, a warning sign that Marcheaux failed to recognise. Porthos could see the vein throbbing in his neck as he struggled to contain his temper, and stepped in quickly, before the situation could escalate further. Trying to explain to the King why the Captain of the Musketeers had killed the Captain of the Red Guard, was a conversation he had no desire to have.

Aramis and D’Artagnan returned later that night, after more than a week away, to find Athos dangerously drunk and a mass of barely supressed fury. “What happened?” Aramis whispered urgently to Porthos. “Marcheaux” his friend answered grimly. There was really no need to elaborate. From that point on Athos refused to have any further dealings with Marcheaux so it fell to D’Artagnan to act as liaison between the two forces.

* * *

 

And still the war raged on. The French regained Angers but nearly lost La Flèche and the Spanish continued to send raiding parties into the countryside, stealing supplies, and when it suited them, women. When Aramis encountered French girls, barely 13, being passed around by the Spanish soldiers it was all he could do to stop himself from killing the men on sight. It was only Mathieu’s quick thinking, in placing his hand on the pistol concealed beneath Aramis’s robe that prevented him from blowing their cover. The two observed the Spanish soldiers closely for several days, waiting for an opportunity, and in the early hours one morning finally managed to smuggle the girls away dressed as boys. Aramis and Mathieu were forced to remain with the Spanish troops for several more days so as not to arouse suspicion by disappearing at the same time as the girls, and when they were finally able to slip away, Aramis returned to Tours with a head full or rage and disgust, any last vestiges of priestly calm abandoned.

It had been a long time since his brothers had seen him so angry.

Everyone’s tempers were fraying. Athos was worn down by the effort of trying to make strategic gains and keep his men safe at the same time, D’Artagnan was exhausted by trying to keep the peace between the Musketeers and the Red Guards, and Porthos was worried about the lot of them, especially when Aramis did not return to their quarters after dinner that night. He went looking for his friend and found him sitting in the dark on the bank of the river, just beyond the entrance to the barracks, staring into the water, fingering a string of rosary beads and silently mouthing prayers. Porthos said nothing, but sat down beside him.

Aramis did not look around, or give any sign that he was aware of his friend's presence, but after some moments started speaking, so quietly that Porthos strained to hear him even in the quiet of the night. “The youngest was twelve, Porthos. _Twelve_. Still a child. She hadn’t even started menses.” He clenched the rosary so tightly Porthos thought it might break.

“Christ,” swore Porthos quietly, under his breath, then crossed himself hastily. He couldn’t imagine the conversation his friend must have had with the girls. Had he examined them as a physician? Counselled them on how to avoid pregnancy? Had Father René prayed for them? Blessed them? Absolved them? Advised them not to tell their parents or told them nobody important would blame them for what had happened or care about their reputations? He could not imagine having to do such a thing. He shook his head in horror. Twelve. Flea would have been at least fifteen when…

His thoughts were interrupted by Aramis, who started speaking again. “And _she_ was fourteen. Fourteen when she left her home and family in Spain and moved to Paris to marry a man she’d never met, who was still barely more than a boy himself. And now our son is nearly five, and one day he’ll be King, and he’ll have to make these decisions and there’ll be nothing, _nothing_ I can do to prevent it. I won’t even know him. He won’t know me. I won’t be able to counsel him not to make the same mistakes. I won’t be able to beg him not to condemn this country to yet another war, where boys will be killed in battle, and girls violated before they’re even old enough to be mothers. _My son_ could make this happen all over again.” Aramis ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at it in frustration.

Porthos didn’t know what to say.

“I hate them Porthos.” he continued “Hate them for what they did to those girls. I want to rip them limb from limb, and I probably would have done if Mathieu hadn’t stopped me. What kind of priest am I, what kind of doctor, for wanting to take their lives so badly? Is that what French troops are doing to Spanish children? If so, I hate them too. How can I love a woman whose husband and brother I hate for condemning their people to this? How can I love a son who may one day do the same? What are we all becoming?”

Porthos couldn’t imagine the anguish his friend was feeling, but his heart was heavy.

“I don’t know, Aramis,” he said gently. “I don’t know. But, I do know _you_ , and a more loving and compassionate man I’ve never known. And I know Treville, and Constance, and The Queen, and they will not let your son grow up to be the man you fear. They’ll do everything they can to raise him to be like you. To be someone you can be proud of.”

Aramis contemplated his friend’s words and the love and loyalty that lay behind them. “I’d be the proudest father on earth if he grew up to be like you.” he replied, quietly.

“Do you have any Moor in you?” Porthos teased.

“No. Some Spanish, yes, but no Moor.”

“Do you mean to say I’m fraternising with the enemy?” Porthos exclaimed in mock horror.

Aramis laughed inspite of himself, “I’m afraid so, amigo. A quarter Spanish, in love with ‘The Spanish Queen’ and I’ve ensured the future King of France is more Spanish than French. A fine servant of France I’ve turned out to be.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry, I probably stole more from the King’s purse as a boy than I’ve ever earned from it as a Musketeer, and Athos would likely have drunk half his cellar if he’d ever gotten into it. God knows what he would have done that day if he’d stayed to watch Milady flirting with the King. D’Artagnan’s the only worthy one among us, and even he would kill the entire Palace guard to save Constance, if he had to.”

“You know he’s going to be a better Musketeer than any of us?”

Porthos grunted in reluctant acknowledgement. “Already is, in many ways. Come on.” Porthos stood up and held his hand out to his friend “Let’s get you back to the barracks. You need some rest.”

Aramis took his hand and hauled himself upright, pulling his friend into a heartfelt embrace. “I know we all agreed we never needed to say it, but… thank you.”


	11. Tours, about 3 years and eight months into the war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barracks and town come under attack in the middle of the night, and the Musketeers have to fight for their lives. Aramis and his trainee medics are stretched to breaking point.

But neither Aramis nor Porthos got much sleep that night, because a small contingent of Spanish soldiers somehow snuck up the valley under cover of darkness and attacked the barracks.

Shortly after midnight the first fire bomb exploded in the courtyard and shook everyone awake. A second bomb exploded within moments. The barracks erupted in total confusion. Athos appeared in the corridor yelling for assistance and the four friends found themselves scrambling, half dressed, through the smoke filled corridors and down the stairs. Mathieu appeared through the smoke with some of the other young medics Aramis had been training.

“Get everyone out!” Athos yelled at Aramis and D’Artagnan. “Grab whatever weapons and ammunition you can carry and defend the town. Do not let the Spanish pass through the main gates. Wake the city officials and tell them to prepare. Do what you can for the injured, but the priority is to hold the town. And Aramis – don’t let them see you.” Aramis nodded. “Come on!” he yelled to Mathieu heading towards their medical supplies, as D’Artagnan directed the recruits to the armoury and the rear entrance to the barracks that lead into the town. “What are you going to do?” he called back over his shoulder.

“Kill as many of them as we can!” Athos yelled back grimly. “Porthos, Renaud, Laurent, saddle up, and help me release the horses.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Porthos enquired. “Dourdan?”

Athos shrugged. “Unless you’ve got a better idea? You up for it?”

Porthos grinned. Athos gestured to the two other musketeers “Fill them in, while I fetch us some weapons.”

A few minutes later, the four musketeers were in the saddle, while the rest of the terrified horses ran around the courtyard, trying to stay as far away as possible from the fire that was now raging through the stables and the sleeping quarters. As the Spanish began to ram the gates, Athos and Porthos exchanged a grim look. “Ready?” asked Athos.

“Always.” he answered with a wild grin.

The gates gave way with a splintering crash, and Porthos hastily lit the trail of gunpowder that lead back to the armoury. “Charge!” yelled Athos and they surged forwards as the armoury exploded behind them, ensuring nobody would get into the town by that route.

The Spanish hardly knew what hit them when out of the smoke and dust the frightened horses came stampeding through the gate, the musketeers taking advantage of their confusion to take out seven of them with pistols. Only one bullet failed to hit its mark. Out of the smoke, the four charged forwards, swords swinging, taking out several more of the Spanish soldiers. Several more were trampled by the horses.

Meanwhile, D’Artagnan had dispatched one of the recruits to ring the city’s bell and wake the residents, and sent half the regiment to defend the front gate. The rest he positioned on the walls and rooftops and instructed them to prepare as many bullets and grenades as possible to rain down on their attackers if they made it through the gates. Aramis gathered the residents in the town square and prepared them to defend the town, instructing Mathieu to escort the women and children to the shelter of the church and ask the priests to help them establish a place to treat the injured.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chaos, confusion, fire, and screams. Athos and Porthos quickly repelled the men at the entrance to the barracks but the Spanish managed to fight their way through the main gate and into the first of the town’s two squares. The musketeer regiment fought hard to keep them at bay and prevent them from penetrating further into the town. The Spanish were a relatively small company that had travelled swiftly upriver without cannons, but they lobbed fire bombs ahead of them, causing horrific injuries as they exploded, with shrapnel flying everywhere, causing the musketeers to scatter and allowing the Spanish to move forward as the buildings around them caught fire.

Up on the walls and rooftops, the musketeers tried to take out as many as they could with sniper fire but in the smoke and confusion their aim was rarely true. For more than an hour, the battle in the first square continued, until at last the Spanish ran out of their crude bombs, and were forced to fight with pistols and swords. A few pushed their way further into the town, but D’Artagnan’s snipers were able to pick them off more easily. More and more townspeople joined the fight, taking on the Spanish soldiers with knives, and pitchforks, and anything else they could find, gradually overwhelming them with sheer numbers.

Athos and Porthos, still on their horses, continued to fight, cutting down as many of their assailants as possible, trying to find the leaders of the mob. Athos instructed Renaud and Laurent, as two of the best shots in the company, to join D’Artagnan’s snipers on the rooftops.

Gradually the tide began to turn, leaving only a handful of the remaining Spanish soldiers and the musketeer regiment to fight it out in the square. Everyone on both sides had run out of ammunition, so the battle continued with swords. The Spanish tried to retreat back through the main gates but found their way blocked by D’Artagnan’s men coming down from the city walls.

One of the Spanish Lieutenants looked at D’Artagnan and hissed “¡Tú! Estabas con el cura! Usted es francés! …” but D’Artagnan did not even give him the chance to finish speaking, and the Lieutenant fell to the ground, dead. Athos and Porthos exchanged grim looks. If D’Artagnan had been recognised, so would Aramis and Mathieu. They could not allow the Spanish to escape. “No survivors.” Athos commanded coldly, as they dismounted and advanced on the trapped men.

* * *

 

While the battle raged outside, the town’s doctor and midwives worked with Aramis and his trainee medics to assess and treat the injured in the church. Knife wounds, sword wounds, bullets, burns, limbs blown off by the crude bombs. The injuries kept coming, even after the explosions ended. The priests did their best to comfort the dying, but the screams of agony from those around them undermined their efforts to bring the dying peace.

Despite having seen some horrific injuries on the battlefield, Mathieu and some of the other young recruits had never had to deal with such severe burns before and several vomited at the sight and smell of burned flesh, but none of them stopped working. The worked through the night and into the morning and then on into the afternoon. After the battle ended, the townspeople bought them food, water, wine and liquor. Aramis downed as much brandy as he could without impairing his ability to continue surgery, desperately trying to drown out the memories of his parents triggered by the patients with burns.

He worked until he could barely stand, until his vision blurred with exhaustion, his hands started to shake, and the town’s doctor pulled him away from his makeshift operating table and told him to stand down. “There’s nothing more you can do.” he said sadly. “We…” he gestured to the midwives, “will take it from here. The rest…” his voice broke in sorrow and exhaustion, “the rest are too far gone. Take this,” he handed Aramis a bottle of fine cognac. “You’ve earned it.”

Aramis staggered away, and as the adrenalin that had been fuelling him began to wear off, sank to the ground in a corner of the church. No amount of cognac could drown the rising tide of memories that welled up in him, and for the first time since the events of Savoy, he wept. He wept for his parents, he wept for his comrades, he wept for the children who’d lost their families and their innocence in the war, for the women who’d lost their husbands and sons, the family he couldn’t have and the son he could never be a father to. He wept until his body shook, and his eyes were red and swollen, and he couldn’t hold the bottle of cognac anymore.

* * *

 

Several hours later, Athos found him there, passed out on the floor of the church, a folded blanket under his head, and another thrown over him, one of the priests holding silent vigil nearby.

Athos nodded to him in gratitude and mouthed “Mathieu?” The priest looked at him blankly. “His shadow?” The man smiled slightly and gestured to some pews where Mathieu and two other young medics had passed out. “Thank you.” breathed Athos in relief. The priest held up the half-drunk bottle of cognac, and Athos took a grateful swig. “Let them sleep.” he murmured.

He returned to the entry square, where D’Artagnan and Porthos were supervising the removal of the Spanish dead, and repair and reinforcement of the main gates with some of the town’s officials. “We need to retrieve the horses if we can.” he said, tiredly.

“I’ll send some men to round them up.” the Mayor offered. “It’s the least we can do. We’re deeply grateful we had a company of Musketeers stationed here and not the Red Guards, or we’d probably be dead instead of them.” he gestured to the dead Spanish soldiers being removed from the town. “I can’t thank you enough. We’ll find rooms for all your men for tonight, but now, why don’t the three of you head to the inn? Madame Durand will see to it that you are well looked after. We can manage here.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.” said Athos gratefully.

“Where’s Aramis?” Porthos asked anxiously, as they stumbled tiredly towards the inn.

“He’s fine.” Athos reassured him. “He’s at the church. The priests are taking caring of him and the other medics. I told them to let him sleep.” He held up what remained of the bottle of cognac, “He left us this.” he said, and took a swig. “I’ll drink to that.” said Porthos, knocking back a large mouthful before handing the bottle to D’Artagnan. “Amen.” the Gascon added, tipping the warming liquid down his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT! DO NOT READ THIS NOTE IF YOU DON'T WANT A MAJOR SPOILER FOR SEASON 3! 
> 
> I drafted most of this story, and finished writing this chapter, a few days before watching The Musketeers season 3, but did not post it immediately because I like to sit on new chapters for a few days and write ahead a little bit in case I need to go back and edit anything. I had no idea how closely this chapter would reflect the events at the garrison in Episode 10. It is very tempting to change elements of my story to reflect events in Season 3, but (apart from the brief mention of Governor Feron and Captain Marcheaux based on the spoilers - obviously the rivalry would have been with D'Artagnan not Athos if I'd written it after watching S3!) I'm not going to. I had three possible endings planned for the story, and hadn't decided which one to go with - the sugar sweet ending (not usually my style), the happy ending, and the bittersweet ending. As the happy ending is rather too close to canon in some elements, I've decided to write the bittersweet ending instead... you have been warned!


	12. Tours, a few days later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack on Tours has taken a heavy toll on the Musketeers, but demands retaliation.

Forty people, including two dozen musketeers died in the attack on Tours that night, and many more succumbed to their injuries over the next few days. Aramis continued to help treat the wounded while Athos and the others helped re-fortify the town. The Mayor made good on his promise to return their horses. A service was held at the church for the fallen of the town and the regiment, who were given proper burials in the town cemetery. Aramis stayed at the church, sleeping on a makeshift bunk in the priest’s quarters and joined them in morning and evening prayers, trying to calm the anger and despair that had been welling up inside him.

“Won’t you join us at the inn?” Athos entreated one evening.

“No, I’m fine here.”

“We miss you, brother. Come and join us for supper, at least?”

“I have work to do.”

“We all have things to do, but we also need to eat.”

Aramis was about to protest but found he didn’t have the energy to cross Athos when he took that don’t-argue-with-me tone. “Okay. Supper.”

Madam Duran greeted him with a flurry of kisses. “He saved my nephew!” she cried, grasping Aramis’s shoulders and showing him off to the men eating and drinking at the inn. “Took a chunk of metal out of his leg and sewed him back up good as new! Anything you want, Monsieur, anything, just ask.”

Aramis tore himself away from the formidable woman, and hurriedly sat down with his friends.

“It’s probably just as well you’re sleeping at the church, Aramis,” murmured D’Artagnan confidentially, “she’s a widow, and she has… needs.” he whispered. “She’s propositioned me twice already. Porthos too.”

Athos shrugged “There’s no accounting for taste. But if you don’t want your vow of celibacy to end with her breaking into your room at night, D’Artagnan’s probably right.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’m happy at the church, anyway.”

Porthos and Athos exchanged a swift look. Aramis looked anything but happy. Then again, the last few days had taken a heavy toll on all of them, and they struggled to make conversation. Porthos gave an account of the repairs they had done on the gates and the barracks, and D’Artagnan talked angrily about his meeting with Captain Marcheaux and his excuses about why the Red Guards hadn’t noticed a company of Spanish soldiers moving up river. Aramis played with his food, but ate little. Eventually, when the others fell silent, he realised they were waiting for him to speak.

“We lost six more today.” he said, slowly. “One musketeer, four men and one woman from the town. Seventeen children lost a parent today. And I had to perform two more amputations, due to infections caused by injuries. The boy who lost his leg was barely fifteen and recently married. He told his father if he was old enough to marry, he was old enough to fight. How is he going to work and support his wife now? At fifteen I was chasing Isabelle round the orchard and helping my father translate the work of Roman philosophers... This has to stop, Athos! How many more have to die?” he hissed vehemently pushing his plate away, banging his fist on the table in frustration.

Porthos and D’Artagnan put down their food and pushed their plates away too. Suddenly they didn’t feel very hungry either. Athos sighed, but said nothing for a long moment.

“I agree.” he said finally. “But how? We have almost no ammunition left. Only two barrels of gunpowder and four boxes of lead shot. The Red Guard are worse than useless and the Spanish have significantly more firepower…”

“I meant, stop the war!” Aramis interjected sharply.

“So did I,” Athos retorted indignantly, “but first we have to win the next battle!”

“They’re not going to catch us unawares again.” growled Porthos. “We need to strike first, take away their advantage.”

“Take away their arsenal.” D’Artagnan suggested. “Aramis, how many cannons do they have?”

“I don’t know. At least eight at the camp this side of Nantes. Probably more in outlying areas.”

“And gunpowder? How much gunpowder.”

Aramis shook his head. “I don’t know. They bring it by boat as far as Nantes and then distribute it from there. That’s why they never run out. They have control of the harbour at Saint-Nazaire and safe passage for arms and troops from there to Nantes.”

“What if we were to cut off their supplies enroute?” asked Porthos.

“We’d never get passed Nantes.” sighed D’Artagnan.

“What if we approached from the other direction, from the coast?”

“It would take too long, and we can’t leave Tours and Angers undefended. We have to block the route to Paris.” Athos replied.

The four friends went over and over the possibilities, desperately trying to come up with a plan that might work. Porthos scowled. “So, we can’t get close enough to strike with muskets because of the cannon, we can’t sneak up behind them, and we don’t have enough gunpowder to blow up much of anything.”

“We need a way to get close.” mumbled D’Artagnan.

“And we need to find out how many weapons and how much gunpowder they have, and where they’re keeping it. If we’re going to strike, we have to make it count.” added Porthos.

“I’ll return to the camp with Aramis and Mathieu. Between the three of us we should be able to find what we need to know.”

“No.” said Athos firmly, “You were recognised in the attack. I can’t risk sending you back out there. Aramis and Mathieu will have to go alone.”

“He’s not going either.” Porthos stated flatly. All three stared at him. “Not after what happened last time. What if you were seen?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Well, I don’t like it.” grumbled Porthos, shaking his head. “He’s not ready.”

“Not ready?” Aramis growled. “Not ready? Do you think I was ready for any of this? Were you? None of us wanted this damn war! We didn’t have a choice. I’m ready to do anything that will help neutralize the Spanish, and save countless French lives.”

“Athos?” Porthos pleaded.

“I don’t like it either,” admitted Athos. “but we need the information. We can’t outgun them. Our only hope is to outsmart them, try and stay one step ahead. Can you do it?”

Aramis nodded.

“But this is the last time.” said Porthos firmly. “Then the spying ends.”

“Agreed.” said Athos. “When can you be ready to leave?” he asked Aramis.

“Not for a few more days. There are two many injured, some still critically.”

“Okay, four days. We’ll need to establish a base closer to Nantes if we’re going to orchestrate an attack. Any suggestions?”

“Mèsanger?” suggested D’Artagnan.

“No, it’s too close.” said Aramis. “They have scouts travelling between regularly between Nantes, the camp at Oudon, and Angers. They might notice. And not Angers, either. We need somewhere further from the river.”

“Candé, then?” D’Artagnan said thoughtfully. “They’ve hated the Spanish passionately since the siege.”

Aramis agreed. “It’s far enough away and we know they’d be sympathetic. I’ve passed through several times.”

“You too?” Athos asked D’Artagnan. He nodded.

“Good, it’s agreed then. Porthos, can you finish the major repairs in time to leave in four days?”

“Aye.”

“The four of us will travel to Candé then, with a few others of the regiment, to establish a base. D’Artagnan, you’ll stay with them, while Porthos and I accompany Aramis closer to Nantes and get the lay of the land.”

“No closer than this side of Mèsanger.” Aramis warned. “They mustn’t see you with me.”

Athos nodded. “We’ll rendezvous there, a week later.”

“Two weeks,” amended Aramis “we can’t just walk in and start asking questions. It will take a few days to build trust with new patients and blend into the background again.”

“That’s too long.” grumbled Porthos.

“Ten days, then.”

 

*****

 

Four days later, the four friends and Mathieu, accompanied by several others, departed for Candé, where Aramis and D’Artagnan introduced Athos to the Mayor and negotiated the relocation of the regiment. D’Artagnan stayed behind to begin preparations, while the other four rode on towards Mèsanger. A few miles outside town, Aramis pulled up beside an abandoned barn, hidden from the road by a dense thicket of trees. “This is where we usually leave the spare horses. We’ll rendezvous here. We usually explain that we’re off to which ever town is under attack early the next day to offer assistance and then leave at night, to avoid awkward questions. We won’t be able to leave until well after dark, and it’s 2-3 hours ride. We can’t travel too fast this close to Oudon for fear of arousing suspicion. Wait until midnight and if we’re not back, try again the next day. Ten days, or eleven, then return to Candé without us. Don’t linger too long here, keep moving around. And don’t ask too many questions, there are spies everywhere. Your best hope of reaching Nantes unseen…”

“Aramis,” Athos interrupted firmly, “we’ve been over this a dozen times. We trust your advice. We won’t take any unnecessary risks. This is just scouting, we’ll save the suicidal missions until we know what we’re up against.”

Aramis nodded curtly. “Ten days.” he waved, and he and Mathieu rode off towards Oudon and the Spanish camp.

 


	13. Oudon & Candé, ten days later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis makes a fatal mistake.

They nearly got away with it. So very nearly.

The Spanish troops had been in a good mood. They’d just taken Cholet, with relatively light casualties and were boasting of setting up another camp there and then marching up the valley on both sides to regain Angers. Aramis and Mathieu had few injuries to treat and nobody questioned their presence or where they’d been for the last few weeks. The soldiers had been chatty and with some carefully leading questions they were able to gain much useful information without arousing suspicion. Mathieu had gotten friendly with some of the Spanish cadets who invited him to play cards with them. Porthos had been teaching the recruits more than fighting skills.

“Don’t win too much.” Aramis had cautioned softly.

“Don’t worry, Father,” he’d whispered back “I haven’t forgotten it’s the information I’m after, not the money. It’ll be easier when they’re drunk.”

Aramis grinned and clapped him on the back. “Good man.”

*****

On the tenth night, satisfied that they’d got the information they needed for Athos to plan an attack, they’d quietly saddled up their horses and begun to ride out of camp, towards Ligné, planning to double back later towards Mèsanger.

They’d almost got away cleanly.

Then Aramis saw the girls.

Young girls, being dragged into a thicket about a mile outside the camp, by the same men he’d seen last time, and something snapped. He turned to Mathieu, “Wait until I give you the signal, then tell the girls to run, get them out of here.” he whispered. “Don’t look back, and don’t wait for me.”

“Father, no, we have to…” Mathieu whispered urgently, but he was too late. Aramis was off his horse and walking steadily towards the men and the girls.

“You’re a little young to be out so late, aren’t you?” he asked innocently, in Spanish and then again in French, trying to overlay it with a Spanish accent. “Won’t your parents be worried about you?”

“They’re old enough.” said one of the men, firmly.

Aramis ignored him. “Where are you from?” he asked conversationally, moving a step closer.

“Stay out of this, priest, it’s none of your business.” spat another man, one Aramis recognised as their leader.

“God’s children are always my business.” Aramis replied smoothly, continuing to look at the girls, not the men.

“I said, stay out of it.” the man threatened, this time stepping directly in front of Aramis.

“Perhaps you’d like me to walk you home? You never know what kind of trouble you might run into so late.”

The man put a hand on Aramis’s shoulder firmly. Aramis stood his ground and continued to address the girls. “Why don’t you go home, now?”

Several things happened at once. Mathieu yelled at the girls to run. The leader tried to punch Aramis, who ducked. The girls froze for just a moment, then started to scream and run in all directions. A couple of the men chased after them. The other four advanced on Aramis who held his hands out in front of himself. “Now, Gentlemen, let’s discuss this calmly, shall we? You don’t want to strike a priest, do you?”

‘You’re no priest. Not a Spanish one, anyway.” growled the leader. “You’re French! It was you, wasn’t it, last time? You’re the one who let them go. You cost me a lot of money… it’s time for some payback.”

Two of the men grabbed Aramis from behind, and the leader punched him hard in the stomach. Aramis struggled to shake them off and managed to elbow one in the face. He swore and returned the favour.

“No! Get them away!” Aramis yelled at Mathieu, who had abandoned the fast disappearing girls, and was returning to help him. The men took advantage of his distraction to punch him several more times, and Aramis dropped to his knees in pain. As he fell forward, his robes fell aside, revealing the pistol at his hip.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” The leader snarled, leaning forward to snatch the pistol, as his men kept Aramis in position. “Ask, and you shall receive!” he mocked, releasing the safety lock, and levelling the gun at Aramis.

“Drop it, Señor!” yelled Mathieu, slithering to a halt a few yards behind him, and levelling his own pistol at the man.

The leader turned in surprise and Mathieu fired, the bullet hitting him in the chest. He staggered backwards, pulling the trigger as he collapsed, hitting Mathieu in the stomach. Aramis let out a strangled cry of “No!” as he watched horrified as Mathieu fell, and struggled to free himself from the men holding him.

Everything happened very fast. One man rushed forward to help his dying friend while the others grabbed Aramis’s arms and hair to hold him still. The leader shook his friend off, “Kill him!” he hissed, and they started to punch and kick Aramis again. Mathieu, wounded but determined, struggled to reload his pistol. The leader indicated a knife in his boot, and his friend grabbed it. Aramis fought hard but the blows kept coming, and suddenly there was the sharp pain of the knife in his side, once, twice, the agony of his shoulder dislocating as he tried to wrench himself free. The men continued to kick him, and he felt the searing pain of a blow to his head, knocking him to the ground. The last thing he was aware of before he blacked out, was the sound of Mathieu firing again.

One man dropped, and the other two scattered.

With shaking hands, Mathieu ripped the shirt off one of the now two dead Spaniards, wrapping it tightly around his torso as a bandage to try and stop his bleeding, then crawled over to Aramis. “Get up, get up,” he urged him, “we have to leave.” He shook Aramis until he started to come to. Mathieu worked swiftly, tearing his cassock and winding it tightly round Aramis’ side, much as he’d done to himself. Aramis struggled to focus. “Mathieu?” he moaned.

“Yes, yes, it’s me. Come on, Father, we have to get out of here. I need you to stand up now.”

Aramis struggled to stand, but his ankle twisted sharply beneath him. He cried out and Mathieu grabbed him. Somehow the two men managed to limp over to Aramis’s horse, which mercifully hadn’t run at the shots. “Come on, get up.” Mathieu urged, but Aramis was close to passing out again, and unable to lift himself into the saddle. With great difficulty, Mathieu managed to hoist him face down over the back of the horse, and with a cry of pain got himself into the saddle, and took off as fast he dared, a once-more unconscious Aramis dangling precariously behind him. As he rode away a couple of shots rang out, but in the dark and the distance they did not reach their mark.

*****

Athos and Porthos waited anxiously at the rendezvous. “They should have been back by now.” Porthos grumbled, “Something’s wrong.”

Athos concurred. “A few more minutes, but we can’t wait much longer. We need to leave.”

“I’m not leaving until he’s back here.” Porthos stated flatly.

“We agreed we’d wait until midnight, no longer.”

“Five more minutes.”

They waited, but Aramis did not appear. Five minutes became ten, ten became fifteen.

“I’m going to look for him.” Porthos proclaimed.

“No!” Athos grabbed him by his pauldron and Porthos glared at him. “That’s an order.”

“Athos, let go of …” growled Porthos furiously. “Wait, did you hear that? It sounded like a horse.”

“I heard it. There’s someone coming!”

“Athos? Porthos? Help!” Mathieu called weakly. They broke into a run. Porthos rushed forward and grabbed the horse’s bridle, bringing it to a halt. Aramis was slumped over the back of the horse. “Athos! Quick!” he yelled. Athos ran forward just in time to catch Mathieu as he slipped out of the saddle and Porthos lifted the unconscious Aramis onto the ground. “What happened?” he demanded.

“Stabbed” mumbled Mathieu motioning towards Aramis.

“And you?” asked Athos.

“Shot.”

Athos inspected Mathieu hastily, while Porthos tried to wake Aramis. “Come on, wake up!” he hissed urgently.

“Is he breathing?” Athos demanded. Porthos nodded.

“Unconscious. Kicked … head” stammered Mathieu.

“How long?”

“Few hours?” Mathieu struggled to get the words out through his shaking.

“Christ!” swore Porthos, “He’s starting to bleed again.”

“Pressure.” Mathieu shivered “needs pressure, horse.” Porthos and Athos exchanged grim looks.

“Can you stitch him?” Athos asked.

“No, not in the dark, not like this.” He held up his hand and Athos saw it was shaking. “You?”

“No. Get him back on then.” Athos commanded “We need to get them back to D’Artagnan as soon as possible”. Porthos nodded and hastily hoisted Aramis back onto his horse, hoping the the pressure on his stomach and side would help to slow the bleeding. He looped the reigns through Aramis’s belt, and tied them tightly, hoping it was enough to keep him on the horse.

“Can you stand?” Athos asked. Mathieu tried, but his knees buckled. “Okay then.” Athos lifted him up onto his own horse and climbed into the saddle behind him, grabbing him round the waist, and urging his horse forward. 

*****

They rode as fast as they dared and didn’t stop until they reached Candé in the early hours of the morning, where D’Artagnan was waiting. “You’re late.” he called out to them. “What happened? Where’s Aramis?”

Then seeing the figure slumped over his horse, “Oh God, is he alive?”

Porthos nodded “Just. Help us.”

D’Artagnan helped Porthos lift Aramis off the horse. “Through here.” he commanded and they carried him through the side door of the inn and laid him down on the kitchen table. Athos followed with Mathieu, who was still conscious and able to stagger, with his assistance, onto a chair.

D’Artagnan checked Aramis first, frantically tearing at his bandage and cassock to get to the stab wounds beneath, now fortunately clotted. “How much blood has he lost?” he asked urgently.

“Lot.” wheezed Mathieu, whose breath was ragged.

“Let me look at you.” D’Artagnan demanded, examining Mathieu. “What happened?” he asked again.

“Men… girls... help… Father attacked.” he stuttered. “Stabbed ‘im. Shot one of ‘em. Shot me back. Kept kicking ‘im. Passed out. Will ‘e be alright?”

“Okay, okay, shhh.” D’Artagnan urged him. “You did well. We’ve got you now. Relax, I’m going to help you. Athos, fetch me some alcohol and clean up Aramis, while I work on Mathieu. Porthos, help me get him on this bench and hold him for me.” Porthos laid Mathieu back on the bench and grabbed his shoulders, while D’Artagnan dug deep into the hole in Mathieu’s stomach trying to extract the bullet. “Okay, almost there.” Mathieu cried out a few times but was too weak to struggle. As D’Artagnan started to clean the wound, his wheezing stopped. D’Artagnan was so focused, he didn’t immediately notice.

“D’Artagnan, stop, stop. It’s too late, he’s gone.” Porthos said gently, pulling him away.

They stood in shocked silence for a moment then Athos called out. “I need help with Aramis. I’ve cleaned the wound but it’s still bleeding. His breathing is shallow and his pulse is weak.”

“Hand me that brandy.” D’Artagnan commanded. He took a large swig and waited until his hands stopped shaking, then turned his attention to Aramis.


	14. Paris & surrounds, about three years and nine months into the war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation in Paris becomes desperate and the war catches up with The Queen and Constance. Help comes in the form of an unexpected person from the past.

The war had plunged Paris into fear and panic as food supplies dwindled and prices increased, and Governor Ferón pulled strings to the advantage of himself and his friends. Anti-Spanish sentiment ran high, and as conditions deteriorated that distrust expanded to include anyone that was not born and bred in Paris and its immediate surrounds. The people were increasingly restless and dissent was springing up all over the city.

Treville did his best to keep a level head and counter Ferón’s influence in court, but the King’s mercurial nature did not make it easy. Lately, he’d become obsessed with the Dauphin, continually disrupting his schedule to show him off for the amusement of the court and the distress of the Queen, for whom her time with Constance and the Dauphin had been the only things sustaining her as the country of her marriage and the country of her birth waged war on each other. She found the love she’d once had for her husband, which had at least been fraternal, had almost evaporated. Fortunately, Louis had little interest in his wife these days either, except when the occasion demanded it. It was an arrangement that suited them both, but for the fact that Louis resented his son’s attachment to her, and continually sought to disrupt it.

The King and Queen rarely ventured far from the Louvre, except to church (on Anne’s insistence) and to hunt (on Louis’s). Treville repeatedly counselled against the latter, it would have been all too easy for someone to arrange an accident, and without Athos and his men at hand, Treville had little confidence in the palace guards.

But although many threats had been made against Louis from several quarters, by groups of dissidents disappointed with the perceived and real weakness of the King, he was too well guarded, and it was ‘The Spanish Queen’ that proved the easier target. One day, on the way back from church, her carriage was ambushed. Treville, who was riding with her and Constance, was pulled from the carriage and thrown to the ground, fighting like the musketeer he’d once been and taking down three of his assailants, but it was too late. Constance and the Queen had both been dragged from the carriage and carried off into the melee. Treville was left with a broken wrist and a very difficult conversation to have with the King and an unbearably smug Ferón.

*****

Constance fought like a wildcat, but nothing she could do had any effect. They were overwhelmed in strength and numbers. They were thrown into the back of a wagon, sacks pulled over their heads, and their hands and ankles tied but their captors refused to answer any questions. Constance yelled herself hoarse but to no avail. Eventually she fell silent and tried to take stock of her surroundings. After some hours the sounds and smells of the city gave way to the fresher air of the countryside and it occurred to her that if their captors intended to kill them, they would have done so already. So, it was kidnap, then. They were to be held for ransom, or more likely the Queen was.

Anne was too scared to fight against her captors, too proud to let them see her fear, and just defiant enough to threaten them with the full fury of the French court as they threw her into the wagon. She sat rigid and upright, her back to Constance and silently prayed for help from the Holy Mother Mary. The familiar prayer itself was a comfort, as was the knowledge that it had always been answered, if not by the Virgin herself, then by Aramis and his friends. She realised she could not rely on his help anymore, but Constance was there, and that was the next best thing. D’Artagnan would come for them, she was certain. And if D’Artagnan came, then so would Athos and Porthos. And if no-one came in time, and the worst happened, at least they’d ensure Aramis would hear of it and he would protect their son.

And that’s when it hit her, that she no longer knew if the promise he’d made to watch over their son was one he would still honour, or whether that vow had been superseded by his vow to God.

In that moment, Anne felt more truly alone than she had in a long time. She twisted her hand around behind her and grasped at Constance’s, who was quick to respond with reassuring pressure.

“D’Artagnan will come for us,” she whispered, “D’Artagnan will find us.”

“Yes” replied Anne with more confidence than she really felt, “yes, he will.”

*****

Constance must have dozed off and lost track of time, but the chill in the air suggested it must be dark outside. The wagon was travelling over rough ground, and had probably jolted her awake.

“Where do you think we are?” Anne asked quietly.

“I don’t know. At least half a day from Paris on horseback, but I have no idea in which direction.”

“What do you think they want from us?”

“That depends who _they_ are, but if they wanted to kill us they would have done so already. There must be something else they want.”

“A ransom?”

“Perhaps. Or to make a political point.” Constance considered this for a moment. “Could it be on your brother’s orders? Perhaps he wanted to get you away from the Palace before making attacking the city.”

“No, he would have found a way to contact me, I’m sure of it. And the Dauphin would have been the perfect opportunity for Spain to claim the throne, they would never have left him behind. Oh!” Anne cried out in distress thinking of her son. “Do you think they mean to harm him? I couldn’t bear it!”

Constance gripped her hand tightly. “Treville will never allow it.”

“If he’s alive. What if he didn’t survive the attack?”

“He’s a former musketeer. Musketeers don’t die easily. He’s probably already sent word to D’Artagnan, and they’ll be planning a way to find us. Porthos will help them, D’Artagnan’s always telling me how good he is at tracking things down. They’ll find us. And they won’t let anyone harm the Dauphin. He’s the son of a musketeer. They’ll protect him like one of their own.”

The Queen took comfort in Constance’s words, and felt certain they were true. A more loyal group of men she’d never met.

*****

It was well after midnight when the wagon came to a halt and they were pulled out and taken inside a building. Once inside, the sacks were pulled off their heads and they were finally able to see. They appeared to be inside a small cottage or farmhouse. They were ordered to walk upstairs and then shown into an attic room with two narrow beds. One of the men produced some water, bread, and apples, then cut the ropes binding their hands. “Eat.” he commanded “Sleep. And don’t even think about trying to escape. The windows are jammed and there’ll be a guard at the door. We’ll treat you decently unless you do something foolish, then we make no guarantees. There’s a bucket in the corner if you need it.” And with that he left the room and they heard a key turning in the door.

Left alone the two women clung to each, then Anne sank onto one of the beds, exhausted, while Constance fell ravenously upon the food.

*****

The next morning someone came to empty the bucket and left them another small plate of food. Another man stood at the door, a pistol in either hand. Constance demanded to know why they were being held, but the men said nothing. In the early evening they returned again. This time Anne put on her most regal voice and demanded to know what the men wanted of them, but again there was no response.

*****

This routine continued for several days. They were fed and watered, and every second day the men brought them a bucket of water to wash with. They were both very aware that their situation could have been much worse, but the inactivity drove Constance crazy, not knowing what their captors wanted of them. With every passing day, the Queen became more despondent, missing the Dauphin with a pain that only increased: the same haunted look on her face that Constance had once seen on Agnes. As Anne grew sadder, Constance grew angrier, pacing up and down in the confines of their tiny room and frantically running over every possibility for escape in her head, but always ending up with nothing.

****

Back in Paris, Louis was fuming. How dare they attack the Queen! He’d ensure the whole damn lot of them swung. If only they knew who _they_ were. He raged at Treville for not preventing it. Raged at Ferón for the failure of the Red Guards. He even snapped at the Dauphin who kept asking for his mother and Constance and bawled his eyes out when told they could not come.

Of course, Treville had sent for D’Artagnan before he’d even reported to the palace, stopping at the garrison to pen a hasty note to Athos explaining what he knew of the situation and telling him to send D’Artagnan, and only D’Artagnan (this was underlined multiple times) to Paris immediately.

They waited four days, four agonising days, for the kidnappers to contact them. Then the note came. “We have kidnapped the Queen and her companion. They will not be harmed if you do as we request.” Then they demanded an outrageous sum of money. “We will not give in to this blackmail!” Louis railed. “You will find them and rescue the Queen.” he commanded Treville. “You will kill them all and we will pay nothing!” Treville pleaded with the King to listen to reason and pay for the Queen’s release but Louis would not listen, swollen with indignation that his own people could turn on him.

*****

On the sixth day, Anne and Constance heard the men arguing. They strained to hear, but the mens’ dialect was thick, from someone near the Flemish border perhaps. It took them a while to get used to it. The word ransom stood out, and leverage, and something was a waste of time. And then came the words they didn’t want to hear, “Why don’t we kill the companion, show them we’re serious?”

Anne and Constance clutched at each other for support.

“No! No killing! There’s been too much bloodshed already. We resolved to solve this peacefully.” A woman’s voice rang clear above the men. “Let me see them.” she demanded. A heated discussion followed but the hostages could not make out what was said. Then came the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the door of their room opened and a woman stepped inside.

Anne and Constance gasped in astonishment. Emilie!

Back to the door, Emilie put her fingers to her lips to silence them. “Let me look at you.” she demanded roughly, moving over to them as the man at the door closed it behind her. Anne drew back in surprise, but Emilie placed a hand on her arm, gently, whispering “I’m here as a friend.”

Turning to Constance she asked “Are you alright? Have they mistreated you?”

Constance shook her head. “Why are they doing this? Who are they?”

Emilie hung her head. “They’re some of my old followers. They’re angry with the King for being so weak. They don’t think he’s committing enough to the war and to his people. They want money for food and arms so they can join the fight against Spain. They hope he’ll give it to them in exchange for the return of the Queen. I asked them not to do this, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Can you help us?” Anne whispered.

“I’ll try, but I can’t do it alone. Where’s Aramis and the musketeers?”

“The musketeers are in Tours,” Anne replied, “but Aramis isn’t with them, he retired to the monastery at Douai.”

Constance looked at her sharply. She’d never told Anne where Aramis had gone. “Actually,” she began hesitantly, “he left there some time ago and rejoined the regiment.” She ignored Anne’s shock, turning back to Emilie. “He’s with them in Tours, along with my husband, D’Artagnan.”

“I’ll send for them,” said Emilie, quietly. “but it will take time. In the mean time, I’m sorry, but you will have to remain here.” Loud enough for the men outside to hear she said, “They won’t hurt you if you don’t try anything stupid, but remember we need the Queen – we don’t need _you_.” she looked at Constance apologetically.

“Why are you helping us?” she whispered.

Emilie hesitated, then looking directly at Anne she said, “You had the courage to offer me an audience when the King wouldn’t listen, and you didn’t betray me when you could have. I love God, and I love France. I hate no-one but the men who condemn us to this endless cycle of war and poverty. We are all victims in this, especially women, and I’m sick of it.”

Without a further word, Emilie left the room, leaving two very surprised but relieved women behind her. Aramis and D’Artagnan would rescue them.


	15. Tours, about 2 weeks after Aramis was injured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis refuses to die but struggles to live, Porthos refuses to leave his side, d'Artagnan frets, and Athos receives news from Treville about Constance and the Queen.

Aramis was in no fit state to rescue anyone. The musketeers had spent two anxious days and nights in Candé while Aramis hovered somewhere between life and death.

Porthos refused to leave his side. He’d had a bad feeling about it all along, and was silently furious with Athos for allowing it. Aramis had not been in his right mind, pre-occupied with his concerns for the victims of war and the Queen and Dauphin. Athos couldn’t blame Porthos for his anger, he held himself responsible for not listening. Porthos’s strategic instincts were rarely wrong, but he’d been too focused on the end game to heed the warning.

D’Artagnan fretted and obsessively checked Aramis’s injuries, second-guessing his treatment. He bound and rebound Aramis’s ankle which he guessed was fractured – was it too tight? Too loose? He worried about infection of the stab wounds which were red and angry, perhaps from dirt on the knife. But his main concern was the swelling on Aramis’s head where he’d been kicked, and his continuing concussion. Although Aramis had opened his eyes several times, he was dazed and confused, unresponsive to his friends’ attentions, quickly slipping back into a stupor. Even when Porthos had helped D’Artagnan reposition Aramis’s dislocated shoulder, his eyes flew open in pain only for a few moments.

For the first time since Thomas died, Athos prayed, begging God not to let him lose another brother. He hadn’t listened to Milady and had tried to take her life, now he was being punished for not listening again. Don’t make him pay for my mistakes, he begged. He’s pledged his life to serve you, let him live so he may do so. 

 

* * *

 

Finally, on the third day, Aramis woke up. He was weak, and feverish, and incoherent, his throat swollen from dehydration. He tried to sit up, but could not. Porthos held him while D’Artagnan tried to get him to focus. “Don’t talk,” he cautioned. “but I need you to try and drink something. Porthos?” Porthos lifted Aramis’s head and torso up a little, and D’Artagnan poured a little water into his mouth. Aramis coughed most of it up, but they kept trying until he finally managed to keep some down. D’Artagnan sighed in relief. If they could get him to eat and drink again, he might be alright.

Aramis had never been in so much pain. Everything hurt: his side, his stomach, his ankle, his head, his shoulder, moving even a fraction triggered waves of agony. Even breathing hurt. Coughing caused an explosion of white light in his head and he very nearly passed out again. D’Artagnan was there, and Porthos and Athos, and they were trying to get him to drink. He felt like his throat was glued shut, but he did as they asked, willing himself not to cough, and almost crying with relief as the sweet, cool liquid began to soothe his throat. “Mathieu?” he croaked.

“Brought you back to us.” said Porthos, silencing Athos and D’Artagnan with a glance.

Aramis closed his eyes in relief, and went to sleep.

Over the next days, Aramis’s condition improved slowly but steadily. Within a few days he was able to sit up for short periods and had progressed from water to broth, and a little colour was returning to his cheeks. The swelling on his head had eased and D’Artagnan carefully washed the matted blood and mud out of his hair. “Can’t have you looking like that when we introduce you to the ladies of the town. I know how important it is to be well-groomed.” he teased, drawing a half-smile from his patient.

“Where’s Mathieu?” Aramis asked. “Can I see him?”

D’Artagnan hesitated, his hands stilling in Aramis’s hair. Porthos came to stand beside him.

“Aramis…” he started gently.

“No.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“NO.”

“D’Artagnan did everything he could, but he’d lost too much blood.”

Aramis closed his eyes, a wave of nausea washing over him. Not again. He remembered how Mathieu had always called him Father René, even after learning that Aramis was not yet a priest, and he felt sick to his stomach. Another person who’d loved him, dead because of him. 

 

* * *

 

Aramis had given them all the information they needed to plan the attack on the Spanish, but none of them were in the right frame of mind to carry out such an audacious move. As soon as he was sure Aramis could be safely moved, Athos ordered a temporary retreat to Tours. Porthos commandeered a wagon, and sat with his friend on their journey. Aramis was quiet and withdrawn, lost in his own thoughts, but he was eating and sleeping and praying, and Porthos was grateful. Aramis was usually a terrible patient, impatient and restless and dismissive of orders to keep still while he healed. Obedience had never been one of his strengths. Porthos was grateful for his friend’s unusual submissiveness, which was undoubtedly good for his recovery, but he was also concerned.

“It’s not your fault.” he said softly, one day, when Aramis was particularly quiet. Aramis said nothing for a long while.

“I told him to leave me, to get the girls to safety, but he didn’t listen, he came back.”

“He made that choice, not you. And I’m bloody glad he did, or you wouldn’t be here now.” Porthos added passionately, and then more gently, “Mathieu was a fine musketeer, and a loyal friend.”

“He called me Father, Porthos, even when we weren’t under cover. I liked it. I liked him calling me that.”

Porthos said nothing but put a hand on his friend’s arm. He thought about Athos and Aramis and the pain they both carried with them. He wondered how many broken pieces it was possible to put back together before somebody broke beyond repair.

He prayed he would never have to see it. 

 

* * *

 

The musketeers who’d remained behind had been repairing the barracks in their absence, although the armoury and entrance to the town were still little more than rubble, and the majority of the men were sleeping in tents in the courtyard until the dormitories could be completed.

Athos ordered four cots to be set up in his tent and had Porthos carry Aramis inside. The young medics he had trained were shocked at the extent of his injuries and bruising, but on checking him over, concluded they could have done no better than D’Artagnan under the circumstances. Nonetheless, they sought out the town doctor, who hurried to the barracks to attend to the man who’d worked so tirelessly to help them after the fire. He confirmed D’Artagnan’s suspicion that Aramis’s wounds had become infected but looked to be improving, and two of his ribs were broken. The head wound was healing well and his ankle was probably sprained rather than broken and should recover if he stayed off it long enough. He returned daily to check on Aramis and give him updates on the recovery of the people he’d treated in town.

Aramis still wasn’t saying much, spending most of the day propped up in his cot reading the bible, struggling to hold the book and turn the pages one-handed with his left arm still in a sling. A steady stream of visitors, including the formidable Madame Durand, dropped by, bringing small gifts of fruit and wine. Aramis let them talk, but contributed little to the conversations.

Athos and Porthos watched anxiously. They hadn’t seen him this quiet since he returned from Savoy, but he was sleeping, and without nightmares, and for that they were grateful. D’Artagnan eventually confessed that he’d been slipping valerian into Aramis’s drink every night. Instead of his confession being met with anger, Porthos had laughed, and told him that he and Athos had been doing this to Aramis on-and-off for years, ever since Savoy. “Go easy on it, though,” he cautioned, “it only seems to be effective for a few weeks, then it stops working.”

After two weeks, the doctor suggested Aramis might try standing and slowly starting to move around, as long as he took it easy and didn’t try to bend or lift anything. Aramis professed the desire to visit the stables, and with Athos supporting him, hobbled over to see his horse and show the animal his gratitude for helping to save his life.

Later that night, when the four friends had all gathered in Athos’s tent and were preparing to sleep, Aramis finally initiated a conversation. “Why are you still in Tours?” he demanded. They looked at him surprised. “Why are you still here?” he asked again, angrily. The three exchanged looks but did not immediately answer. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?” he wheezed, his ribs protesting at the force with which he was speaking. “You have the information you need. Why aren’t you disabling the Spanish artillery?”

Athos rose from his bed and moved towards Aramis. “The time isn’t right.” he answered simply.

“You’re soldiers,” hissed Aramis, starting to cough, “musketeers. You should be acting on this advantage before the situation changes, not playing nursemaids to me.”

“Aramis,” started D’Artagnan, moving swiftly to support him while he coughed violently, “why don’t you focus on getting better and leave the strategy to us.”

Aramis pushed D’Artagnan away impatiently, “I’m fine. There’s no reason for you to delay any longer. Go disable the Spanish in Nantes, turn their firepower against them, put an end to their onslaught before any more French lives are lost. You need to use the information we got you as soon as possible, before they try to regain Angers.”

Porthos stepped forward, “Aramis, we understand what this cost, and what it cost you personally, and we will act soon, but you know better than anyone what happens if emotions get in the way of soldiering. We were not ready. It would have been dangerous to try.”

Athos nodded, “When we act, it will be with clear heads, or not at all. I’m not willing to lose any of you.”

“Promise me you’ll act soon.” Aramis demanded.

“I promise.” said Athos, “Mathieu’s sacrifice will not be in vain. Now, just for once, please do what I ask, and get some rest tonight, or I won’t let you leave this tent tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, the four friends dressed together, Athos agreeing to let d’Artagnan escort Aramis to the church, on condition that he take it slowly, while he and Porthos started to make preparations to return to Candé. Aramis swung his legs over the cot and Porthos helped him to get his shirt, britches and boots on, before securing his left arm in the sling again. They were almost done when a noise from outside the tent caught their attention.

“Excuse me!” someone called, “I have a message for Captain Athos.”

“Come in.” Athos replied.

Treville’s messenger entered the tent, looking nervous and apologising. “I’m sorry, Captain, the coach was delayed by fighting en route, we had to take a detour.”

The messenger handed an envelope to Athos who opened it and scanned the contents with a grim look upon his face. “D’Artagnan!” he called, “They’ve taken Constance, and…” he stopped himself quickly, “and you’re to return to Paris immediately.”

“What?! Who?” D’Artagnan snatched the letter out of his hand. Athos swiftly moved to grab it back, but D’Artagnan was too quick for him. “They’ve taken Constance and the Queen? Who’s they?!” he hissed in frustration, punching the wall in frustration. “Who’s taken them? Where?”

Athos sighed and gave D’Artagnan a look that could have turned him to stone, had he not been preoccupied with turning Treville’s letter over in his hands, in disbelief that it didn’t contain any more information. Athos turned slowly to Aramis, who was very still, and very pale.

“They’ve taken the Queen?” he asked so quietly it was barely a whisper.

D’Artagnan looked up sharply, shooting an apologetic look at Athos who just glared at him.

The moment of silence was interrupted by the messenger, who had not yet left. “Are you the musketeer Aramis?” he asked nervously.

Aramis said nothing, his mouth drawn in a tight line and his hand clutching the edge of the bed for support.

“I have a letter for Aramis. It was given to another messenger, but when we were waylaid I offered to bring it for him.” He held out the letter cautiously, and Aramis snatched it from his hand and tore it open.

“It’s from Emilie,” he read incredulously turning to D’Artagnan “she knows where they are!”

Without another word, Aramis pushed himself off the bed, and hobbled towards the door, still unable to put his full weight on his ankle.

“Aramis, no!” Athos called, “Porthos, stop him!”

Porthos grabbed at Aramis’s sleeve, but Aramis shook him off furiously. “Get out of my way, Porthos.” he growled, in a voice only the people who’d been at his trial had heard before. Porthos dropped his hand in shock as though Aramis had punched him.

“Where is the Dauphin?” Aramis demanded.

“Safe.” Athos answered, “At the Louvre, with the King and Treville. Aramis, don’t… it can’t be you…” he pleaded, but it was too late. Aramis snatched up his coat and his pistol, and broke into a lopsided run in the direction of the stable.

The three remaining Musketeers exchanged questioning glances.

“He’s going to get himself killed!” grumbled Porthos.

“Go!” Athos commanded D’Artagnan urgently, “take some weapons and provisions and for God’s sake try and keep him away from the Queen. If the King suspects anything they’ll hang him for sure.”

“We have to go after them.” Porthos exclaimed.

“No.” Athos stopped him, hurriedly standing between Porthos and the door. “I need you here. I can’t carry out this attack without you, and Aramis is right, it might be our only chance. We’ve already wasted enough time. We have to do it soon.” He stared the big man down, not sure if Porthos would accept the order or not.

“Wasted?” Porthos challenged.

Athos looked contrite, “I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words.”

Porthos glared at him, but backed down, taking his frustration out on Aramis’s now empty cot with a swift kick.


	16. Cernay-la-Ville & Forêt de Rambouillet, six days later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan has to save the injured Aramis from himself before they can rescue Constance and the Queen.

It took a full day for d’Artagnan to catch up with Aramis. Unlike his friend, who hadn’t grabbed anything more than his weapons and his horse, d’Artagnan had brought extra weapons and ammunition, and a little food and water. They’d be no good to Constance or the Queen if they arrived dead on their feet. Athos had also pressed some money into his hand. “You may need this” he said simply. D’Artagnan thanked him.

“Constance will be fine.” Porthos reassured him “You know she will. Émilie wouldn’t have sent for Aramis if…” he didn’t know how to finish the sentence so he didn’t, but d’Artagnan understood. They two men hugged briefly, and then d’Artagnan swung himself up onto his horse and was gone.

Athos and Porthos looked at one another wearily. “They will be alright, won’t they?” Porthos asked uneasily.

“I don’t know, brother.” Athos slung his arm around Porthos’ shoulder. “D’Artagnan, probably, but Aramis…” he shrugged helplessly. Following his heart had never brought Aramis anything but trouble. Athos could only hope that his God loved him as much as his brothers did, and would bring them both back safely.

 

* * *

 

When d’Artagnan finally caught up with Aramis he said nothing, just pulled up his horse abruptly in front of him, forcing Aramis to a halt. Aramis eyed him warily.

“If you’re here to try and stop me, forget it. My duty is clear, I’ve neglected it too long.” He winced, trying to ignore the pain in his side from his not-yet-fully-healed wounds.

“I’m not here to stop you, but I’m not going to let you get yourself killed either.”

“Are you going to telling me you wouldn’t risk your life for Constance?”

“No. Of course not! I’d risk everything. But let’s be smart about this. What exactly did Émilie say?”

“That she knows where the Queen and Constance are, that we should come quickly, and she can help us.”

“Do you trust her?”

Aramis hesitated. Did he?

“Yes. She was misguided, but she was a good woman, not a cruel one. When her followers wanted to kill the Queen, she stopped them, treated her decently. I believe we can trust her.”

D’Artagnan looked sceptical, but took his friend at his word. What choice did they have? He tossed Aramis the priest’s robe he’d brought with him, “Then let’s not waste any more time!” he suggested, kicking his horse into action. Aramis smiled with relief and galloped after him.

 

* * *

 

It took them four more days to reach the village of Cernay-la-Ville where Émilie had written to meet them. They pushed the horses as hard as they dared, and as much as Aramis’s injuries allowed. He was unable to trot with his sprained ankle, so they either galloped or walked. They went to the inn Émilie had suggested and waited anxiously for her to contact them. The innkeeper told them she wouldn’t be returning until at least tomorrow. D’Artagnan was wound up and unable to rest, pacing restlessly in the room they’d hired for the night, fretting about Constance.

“D’Artagnan…” begged Aramis, “please, stop.”

D’Artagnan turned to his friend, curled up on his right side on the bed, and was shocked to see how pale he looked. “Are you alright?” he asked anxiously.

“No. I think I’ve torn some stitches. And I might…” he suddenly leant over the side of the bed and wretched, “…vomit.”

“Christ,” D’Artagnan swore softly, then “Sorry.” He looked around for a bucket but found none. “Do you think you might do that again?”

Aramis nodded weakly, and threw up, right on cue.

D’Artagnan excused himself and darted out of the room, returning a minute or two later with a bucket and a mop. He eyed Aramis warily as he started to clean up, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“It’s alright,” his friend said weakly, “I think I’m done. Better get used to it if you’re planning to give Constance the children she wants.”

“What would you know about…” d’Artagnan caught himself just in time, and hissed at his own lack of tact. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.” He sank down on the bed beside Aramis, who looked as miserable as he felt.

“No, you’re right. What do I know about fatherhood? The only thing I’ve ever done for my son is nearly get both his parents killed, and abandoned him and his mother.” Not to mention driving his governess to kill herself, he thought.

“Aramis…” d’Artagnan sighed, “you didn’t abandon them. You walked away to save their lives. What more could you have done?”

Aramis didn’t respond, but took the cup of water d’Artagnan offered him and rinsed his mouth out into the bucket. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me until I’m done stitching. Last time you were unconscious, which made it much easier on both of us.” d’Artagnan replied, gingerly removing the bandages around Aramis’s ribs and cringing at the still angry wound in his side. “I think we might need some alcohol for this.”

“You, or me?”

“Both.”

An hour or so later d’Artagnan was satisfied that he’d cleaned and stitched his friend as well as he could, and bandaged his side tightly enough to protect the stitching but not so tight as to crush his healing ribs. “I think you should get some sleep.” he suggested.

Aramis made no protest. He was physically and emotionally exhausted. “And you?”

“I thought I might go and have another drink, maybe ask a few questions…” Aramis’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist tightly.

“No questions.” he cautioned. “Promise me. We’re strangers here, just passing through. She said to talk to no-one but the innkeeper. We can’t risk attracting attention. Promise me you’ll stick to our story!”

“Okay, okay, I promise.” Aramis did not let go of his wrist. “No questions. I’ll just sit, and drink, and listen, and if anyone talks to me I’m simply escorting a sick priest back to his parish.”

“Good.” Aramis relaxed his grip on d’Artagnan’s wrist. “Thank you.”

“Would you _please_ stop saying that? We made an agreement, remember?”

 

* * *

 

Émilie arrived at the inn late the following afternoon, and led them to a woodsman’s cottage in the Forêt de Rambouillet. They stayed low behind the trees scoping the place out.

“There’s never less than three of them, and usually five.” Émilie whispered. “Two of them take food to the Queen, while one stands guard at the door, the others remain downstairs. There’s only one way in and out. They know me. I’ll knock and draw one of them out, then you can take on the others.”

“It’s too risky.” mumbled d’Artagnan, “Let us handle it.”

“Can we try the windows?” Aramis wondered out loud, his eyes following the guttering up to the roof.

“You can’t.” D’Artagnan replied, looking pointedly at Aramis’s injuries. “No, Émilie’s right, we have to go in through the door. Follow my lead, and try not to do yourself any more harm. I’m sick of stitching you up.”

As promised, when Émilie knocked, the first man came out to greet her. Aramis was waiting behind the door and hit him hard over the head, while d’Artagnan rushed inside, shooting two of the men and drawing his sword and knife on the other two. Aramis came to join him, drawing his sword. It had been a long time since he’d trained with his brothers, and even longer since he’d fought an enemy, and hampered by his injuries he struggled to defend himself, let alone attack.

“Your pistol, shoot him!” d’Artagnan yelled at him above the scuffle, taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary distraction to run him through with his sword. Pulling it out sharply, he turned to his friend. With one arm incapacitated, Aramis was unable to handle a sword and draw his pistol at the same time. D’Artagnan moved to help his friend just as Aramis saw his opportunity and plunged his sword into his adversary’s stomach. The man fell and Aramis leant against the table in relief, panting from the exertion.

“Did you kill _him_?” d’Artagnan jerked his head toward the door.

“No. Just knocked him out.”

“Well, for goodness sake,” d’Artagnan huffed, grabbing Aramis’s pistol, “give me that.” He went outside and shot the man, tossing Aramis’s spent pistol back at him, which he fumbled to catch one-handed. “Come on, then,” he said impatiently. “What are you waiting for?” and rushed up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 The Queen and Constance clung together, terrified at the sound of shots and shouting, preparing themselves for the worst. They heard footsteps bounding up the stairs and the splinter of wood as the door was kicked in, and then there was d’Artagnan, and Constance was throwing herself into his arms, and behind him, there was Aramis.

Anne smiled in relief, her eyes locked on Aramis, barely acknowledging d’Artagnan, “I knew my loyal Musketeers would come for me.” she breathed.

It had been nearly four years since she’d seen him, the man who made her feel loved. Four years since she’d seen the father of her son, the man she’d almost lost her life for, the man who nearly died to save her, and she was shocked by how he’d aged. How the joy and lightness she remembered had left him. New furrows in his brow, more grey in his beard, scars on his head and cheek, his arm in a sling, and evidence of other injuries. He stood at the door, breathing heavily, and stared back.

It had been nearly four years since he’d seen her, his beautiful Queen, the mother of his child, the woman he’d almost lost his life for and lost her life for him, and he was shocked by how much she’d changed. Not in her features, which were as beautiful as ever, but in her eyes, and her bearing, as though she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, head bowed in relief. “Your Majesty.” he murmured, clasping her hands tightly in his right hand, and kissing them both in turn.

“Aramis.” she choked out, pulling one hand away and reaching down to touch his face and trace the scar on his cheek with her fingers. “The bravest of all my…” but she got no further. All the fear of the last few days, weeks, years, all the things she’d been holding back, caught up with her in a violent wave of tears. He caught her awkwardly as she stumbled forward, wrapping his right arm around her tightly, lifting them both up and burying his face in her hair.

Constance and d’Artagnan looked on as Aramis held her, Constance smiling, d’Artagnan scowling, “This is exactly why Athos didn’t want him to come.” he murmured angrily, “Hasn’t he learned anything?”

“Haven’t _you_ learned anything?!” Constance hissed angrily. “She loves him. She needs him. When have you ever known Aramis to turn away a woman in need?” No, thought d’Artagnan, and that’s exactly what gets him in trouble.

Anne and Aramis clung to one another for a long moment, until Anne’s sobs began to subside, then Aramis suddenly disentangled himself, his face unreadable, and took a step back. “ _Lo siento_.” he murmured, bowing, and left the room abruptly.

Anne stood staring after him, confused, as Constance and d’Artagnan exchanged surprised glances.

“Come on, Your Majesty, let’s get you out of here.” urged d’Artagnan, ushering them both downstairs, “We have horses waiting. We should go as soon as possible.”

Émilie was waiting in the kitchen downstairs. “He’s gone to get the horses.” she said, “Here, take these.” She handed them a small bundle of food she’d gathered from the kitchen, and cloaks for Anne and Constance. “That should last you a couple of days. Do you know where you’re going?”

“Aramis says he knows a place. In the mountains near…”

“No, don’t tell me,” Émilie cut him off. “It’s best that I don’t know. Just stay far away from Paris, it’s not safe for the Queen.”

“What about you?” asked Anne. “What will you do?”

“Come with us.” Aramis suggested, as he pulled up with the horses. “It’s not safe for you here.”

“I can’t.” she replied “I have work to do.”

Aramis shook his head impatiently, “If they suspect you helped the Queen escape who knows what they’ll do to you! Come with us.” he repeated more forcefully.

Émilie looked up at him, surprised by his insistence. “I can’t, but thank you. I wish you well.”

“No, thank _you_.” said Anne, taking Émilie’s hand and holding it tight. “I will never forget your kindness.”

D’Artagnan helped the Queen onto the spare horse, and then pulled Constance up behind him.

“Now go!” commanded Émilie, “And don’t stop until you’re at least a day’s ride from here!”


	17. Provins & Epernay, a few days later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Queen's joy at being reunited with Aramis does not seem to be shared, and Constance and d'Artagnan, alone at last, find themselves talking about their friends, rather than engaging in more pleasurable pursuits.

They rode for two days, stopping only to eat and rest the horses in the middle of the day. After being assured the Dauphin was safe at the palace, the Queen and Constance slept a little, but Aramis couldn’t sleep. “You must rest.” d’Artagnan advised him. “You’re still injured.” But Aramis couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he imagined what might be happening to Émilie, it was better to stay awake.

On the third night they decided it was safe to spend the night at an inn in Provins. They paid for two rooms, one for Constance and the Queen, the other for Aramis and d’Artagnan. It pained him to be so close to Constance but not be able to spend the night with her, but they all needed sleep. _I’m sorry, friend,_ he thought, as he handed Aramis a glass of mulled wine into which he’d added some powdered valerian.

* * *

 

They’d concocted a plausible cover story, with two sisters of a priest injured in the fighting in the Loire, escorting him back to his parish, with one of the sister’s husbands accompanying them. Aramis wore his priest’s robes, and d’Artagnan acquired simple but respectable garments for Constance and Anne.

D’Artagnan insisted on trading one of their horses and some of the cash Athos had given him, for a simple buggy. This slowed their progress, but allowed Anne and Constance to remain inside the carriage unseen. Changing their routine, they travelled by day and rested at night. Their chargers did not take kindly to being harnessed to the buggy, but with some coaxing from d’Artagnan eventually settled. He was relieved to get Aramis off his horse, which was doing no good for his injuries. He tried several times to convince Aramis to ride inside the carriage with the Queen, so that Constance could sit up front with him, but Aramis flatly refused, citing the safety of the women. Constance and d’Artagnan both suspected there were other reasons for his refusal, and the Queen was clearly hurt and confused by his avoidance of her.

The tension that had been brewing between Anne and Aramis began to hang heavily over all of them like a dark cloud. Aramis was moody, and withdrawn, speaking to her only when he had to, and avoiding eye contact. D’Artagnan’s attempts to lift his friend’s spirits fell on stony ground. It wasn’t that Aramis rebuffed them, just that he didn’t welcome them either. His initial joy and relief at finding the Queen unharmed seemed to have been replaced by irritation. D’Artagnan was at a loss to know what to do. He wished Athos and Porthos were with them, he was sure they’d know how to snap him out of it, or slap it out of him if necessary!

While d’Artagnan grew increasingly concerned about Aramis, Constance was equally preoccupied with the Queen. Anne’s spirits had lifted the moment he had joined them. It was clear that she felt safer in his presence. In those first few days, for the first time since her separation from the Dauphin, some of the light had returned to her eyes, but her happiness at the reunion was apparently not shared by her former lover. Aramis rarely spoke to her, barely even looked at her, forever shrouded in his own thoughts, and all Constance could do was watch as the Queen’s good mood rapidly began to fade.

“What’s wrong with him?” she hissed in frustration, one evening at an inn in Epernay. The Queen was resting, and Aramis was attending to the horses and arranging a meal, leaving Constance and D’Artagnan a precious couple of hours to spend together. “Why won’t he talk to her?”

D’Artagnan shrugged helplessly. “I wish I knew.” He sighed. “He doesn’t talk to me either.”

“I’m _this_ close to slapping him!” Constance huffed in annoyance. “She still loves him, and I’m sure he loves her, but he won’t even look at her! Hasn’t he said anything?”

D’Artagnan shook his head, “I used to think Aramis was the most open of them all, the least guarded, but now I don’t know.” he mused. “I think maybe he carries more secrets and ghosts than Athos. He’s just better at hiding them – or, he used to be.”

“Well, I wish he _was_ for Anne’s sake.” Constance declared fervently.

“Has she ever talked to you about what happened between them?”

“A little.” Constance hesitated, she had few secrets from her husband, other than what she knew about Aramis and the Queen, but these were not her secrets to tell. The Queen had spoken to her in confidence.

“It started long before the convent…” she eventually began.

“What?!” D’Artagnan sat bolt upright, shocked, staring at his wife in disbelief. “But he said…”

Constance shushed him. “No, I don’t mean that, but her feelings for him, and possibly his for her, started before then. She was desperately lonely. She loved the King, but more like a brother than a husband and their relationship always lacked…” Constance struggled for words, feeling like a traitor for speaking such things out loud. “…passion. She left her family at fourteen for a loveless marriage in a foreign land, and has always done her duty but never experienced genuine love or affection – the desire of male courtiers and the jealousy of other women perhaps, but not real love or even friendship. Then Aramis came along and saved her in the chaos at the Châtelet, and looked at her the way he does…”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. He remembered all too well the way Aramis used to look at women, even Constance, although he knew his friend well enough now to know he would never have gone there.

“And for the first time in her life she felt like a woman, not a Queen.”

“Is that when she gave him the crucifix?” he asked curiously. “I don’t remember him wearing it before.”

“I think so. We never actually spoke about that, but that’s how Rochefort discovered their affair. He recognised it as hers and became suspicious.”

D’Artagnan growled. Any mention of Rochefort reminded him how close he had come to losing Constance. A spark of anger flared up in him at how Aramis’ actions had nearly cost him his love.

“That wasn’t his fault.” his wife said quietly but firmly, reading his mind. “Rochefort was obsessed with Anne, but she rejected his advances. He was insane. He would have found a way to make her pay for that, even without Aramis. The Spanish letters and the accusation of murder would have been enough to convince the King of her treachery if Anne had been in the palace at the time. I would have been implicated by association. You can’t blame Aramis for that.”

D’Artagnan bristled at the rebuke. “He should never have seduced her in the first place! She’s the Queen for heaven’s sake! What was he thinking?”

“He wasn’t. And…” she hesitated, “he didn’t.”

“What?” d’Artagnan looked at her sharply.

Constance sighed. There was no way to avoid this now. “He didn’t seduce her. She seduced him.” she said softly.

D’Artagnan’s mouth fell open in surprise but nothing came out.

“He was grieving. One of the nuns at the convent was his childhood sweetheart. She fell pregnant and they were to be married, but she lost the baby, and disappeared. He searched for her, but never saw her again until that night. He told Anne this shortly before Sister Helene was killed by one of the traitors. She died in his arms. He felt responsible for her death, and so did Anne.”

“That’s ridiculous! How could he have known what would happen? How could she?”

“Nevertheless, he was grieving and blaming himself, and she wanted to comfort him.”

“So she seduced him?!” d’Artagnan’s shock was evident.

Constance was silent for a moment. “I’m sure it wasn’t planned by either of them, but they’d already become intimate, emotionally. They’d told each other things I don’t think either of them had spoken of before. She was afraid for her life, and he was grieving and in pain, so they took comfort in each other.”

“But, she’s the Queen!” he protested.

“She’s also a woman.” Constance reminded him gently. “A woman who wanted to love and be loved and Aramis made her feel that.”

D’Artagnan shook his head, trying to get his head around what his wife had told him. Knowing his friend’s unapologetic love of women above his station, it had never occurred to him that the relationship was instigated by the Queen, or that there may have been deeper feelings on both sides.

“He never told us any of this.” He mumbled.

“About Anne or Sister Helene?”

“Either.” d’Artagnan was silent for a moment. “First Sister Helene, then finding out about Adele, and then nearly losing Anne and his son. And Marguerite...” He said slowly. “He must feel like he’s cursed. No wonder he went to the monastery to try and assuage his guilt.”

“Do you think he still blames himself? I hoped he’d gotten past that during his time in Douai.”

“I’m sure of it.” d’Artagnan replied with sudden conviction. “When he was acting as a spy among the Spanish troops, he tried to rescue some young women the soldiers were abusing. The men turned on him, and his protégé, Mathieu, was killed trying to help him. He’s been moody and withdrawn since then. Why else is he so miserable? Why avoid Anne so pointedly unless he still feels that anyone he gets close to is going to die?”

“So you think he still loves her, then?”

D’Artagnan shrugged helplessly, a gesture that said maybe, and I don’t know, and probably, and how the hell am I supposed to know, all at the same time. “Christ, Aramis, why is everything so damn complicated with you?!” he sighed in exasperation. “Sorry.” he added, for the blasphemy, looking to the heavens. Sharing a room with a priest in all but name was starting to rub off on him.

“I have no idea.” Constance smiled ruefully. “But, I do know that they’re both unhappy, and it’s time they started talking to one another.”

D’Artagnan gathered her close and kissed her. “The question is… how?” he sighed.

“Why are we talking about them, anyway?” challenged Constance. “What kind of musketeer has a woman alone in his bed chamber and spends the time talking about his friends?”

D’Artagnan grinned. “The kind of musketeer who’s currently wondering how best to ravish his woman _this_ time…” he answered as he pushed her back down on the bed with a delighted squeal.


	18. An inn near Bétheny, a couple of days later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance and d'Artagnan resort to drastic measures to force Aramis to talk to the Queen.

Constance and D’Artagnan had waited for the right opportunity to force the issue, and a few days later, at an inn in Bétheny, had managed to trick Aramis into the same room as Anne, and locked them in.

“I’m fairly sure locking up the Queen is a form of treason.” D’Artagnan grumbled.

“Trust me,” retorted Constance. “You’re not going to hang for this.”

Aramis yelled angrily through the door at them, and tried giving it a kick, but unable to fully support his weight for long on his recovering ankle, and with the injuries to his ribs, side and shoulder, he didn’t have enough strength to force the door open.

“Talk to her.” Constance suggested.

* * *

 

Left alone together, Aramis did his best to avoid looking at Anne. When he’d heard of her capture it had been like ice in his veins: a pure cold stab of fear that overwhelmed him. As he and d’Artagnan had ridden to their rescue, all he could think about was rescuing her and making sure d’Artagnan returned the Queen and Constance to the safety of Paris. He hadn’t considered what would happen if it wasn’t safe to do so, hadn’t considered the possibility that he would have to spend so much time with her. It was one thing to love her from a distance, sure that he’d never see her again, quite another to be holding her in his arms while she sobbed, fighting the urge to kiss her.

The strength of his reaction to seeing her again had shocked him. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t get close enough to put her life in danger again, and yet the moment he’d seen her, looking so vulnerable, he’d forgotten his resolve. He’d fled the room and done his best to avoid looking at her and speaking to her ever since. He knew it was hurting her, but it was for the best. The people who loved him died. Better then, that she didn’t.

Anne, in contrast, couldn’t stop looking at Aramis, trying desperately to read his thoughts. She settled onto the edge of the bed and looked at him curiously. “Aramis,” she started cautiously, “look at me, please?” Aramis didn’t respond, so she tried again. “Talk to me.” Aramis stepped away from the door and sank into a chair, his face half-turned away.

“Will you disobey an order from your Queen?” she ventured. He looked at her sharply then and a flash of anger passed over his face, causing her to immediately regret the question. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Aramis sighed. “Your Majesty should rest. We have another long journey tomorrow.” He stood and turned away from her, and began to remove his weapons. Anne watched as he fumbled one-handed with the belts and buckles, eventually ripping off his sling in frustration, so he could stretch out his left arm and tentatively use both hands. Anne resisted the urge to help him, sensing it would not be appreciated. Finally he laid his weapons on the dresser and sank back down on the chair, carefully massaging the stiff muscles in his left arm.

“Do you not need to reattach the sling?” Anne asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“No. I only need wear it during the day to prevent me from doing anything to dislocate it again. I don’t need it at night.” he replied, tiredly.

They lapsed into silence again.

Eventually Anne began to speak. “When Constance told me you’d left Paris, I was so relieved. I wasn’t sure if Louis believed that everything Rochefort had said was lies. I don’t think he’s ever fully trusted me again. I knew he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me, but I was terrified for you. I was so grateful when I learned you’d resigned your commission and were going to lead a different life.”

Aramis said nothing, and remained half-turned away from her, but Anne could see that he was listening, so she continued. “I tried to imagine your life in the monastery, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine someone with your energy and passion being content with that life.” Aramis said nothing but thought about Father Emil. “Constance didn’t tell me where you were, but I found out from the Bishop of Notre Dame.”

Aramis looked at her sharply, “You asked after me? That was foolish! You could have…”

Anne interrupted. “I merely mentioned I’d heard one of the musketeers had given up his commission for a life serving God, and the Bishop supplied the rest. He told me he’d heard you were training as a physician. It made me happy to think of you being busy and challenged.” Anne paused, “I thought you’d gone to lead a different life, a safer life, as I once begged you, but then I learned you’d left, and I began to wonder.” She hesitated again and then whispered, “Why did you join the monastery, Aramis?”

“I made a vow that if He spared our lives, I would devote my life to serving His will.” he answered slowly.

“And that’s the only reason?”

Aramis hesitated, “No. I did it to protect you and the Dauphin. Everyone who’s ever l…” he stopped himself, unwilling to say the word, “…cared for me, has died. Isabelle, Adele, Marguerite, Mathieu. I couldn’t let that happen to you. I had to distance myself from you.” His voice shook a little, and he turned away again, trying to compose himself. He didn’t want to be having this conversation.

Anne frowned. “Aramis, you are not responsible for their deaths. Sister Helene,” she paused to cross herself, “was a tragic accident, and Mathieu was a musketeer defending a comrade. You would have done the same.”

“And Marguerite?” he challenged, rising out of his chair and turning to face her for the first time, unable to suppress the anger and self-loathing rising up in him.

“Enough!” cried Anne, rising from the bed and taking a step towards him. “Stop doing this to yourself! Your only crime was to let her believe you cared more for her than you did.”

“She died because of me!”

“She died because Rochefort poisoned her mind against us. Twisted her love for you into a desire to hurt you for loving me, for loving your son. The Marguerite I used to know would never have done that. It was Rochefort, not you, that was responsible for her death.”

“I seduced her with the sole purpose of being close to my son!” he spat in disgust. “Never in my life have I lain with a woman for whom I had no real affection, until her. Not even when seeking patronage. I’ve always felt something, always been able to offer at least simple affection in return, but not with her. It was always about getting close to the Dauphin. I used her, cruelly. And I can never make amends for that! I will carry her on my conscience for the rest of my days! I lied to her. I lied under oath. I promised, on the Bible, in front of God, to tell the truth, and I lied!”

“You did that to protect me, to protect our son, to save our lives and my reputation!”

“I still lied under oath!” he yelled furiously.

Anne stared, a horrible thought dawning on her slowly. “And you blame me.” she whispered.

“What?” Aramis recoiled as though she’d slapped him, “No!”

“Yes, you do. You blame me for having to lie!”

“No!” he yelled again, but one look at Anne’s face, utterly distraught, showed she didn’t believe him, and he felt some of his anger starting to slip away. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to hurt her. “No.” he said more calmly. “I blame myself for putting you in that position. I should never have done that. Never have allowed things to go as far as they did, and then you would never have been in danger.”

“And I would never have had a child and the Cardinal would have found another way to get rid of me.” Anne challenged.

“We wouldn’t have let that happen! We’d have kept you safe. It was wrong of me to…”

“So, you regret what happened between us?” Anne cut him off, bitterly. “Because I have never regretted it! Not once! Not even for a moment! It is the one happy memory that has sustained me through everything. Through the Cardinal’s treachery, through the humiliation of Milady, through Rochefort’s deceit. Feeling loved, feeling needed, however briefly, and our beautiful child, the answer to my prayers. _You_ gave me that. I will _never_ regret that! I will never regret loving you! Not even knowing what you gave up to protect me!”

Anne’s voice shook with emotion, her eyes shining with tears she refused to shed. She would not cry. She would not. She was the Queen. She lifted her chin and stared at him defiantly.

Aramis reeled. He couldn’t have this conversation. He had to keep his vows, for God, and for himself. He didn’t want the whirlwind of emotions flooding through him, threatening to overwhelm him. He had to learn to control the wildness of his temper, his passions.

People who didn’t know him well saw Aramis as the easy-going one, the last one to start a fight, despite his occasional wild enjoyment of them, but they were wrong. His fuse might be longer than d’Artagnan’s and his anger less readily apparent than Porthos’s, but when anger took hold of him it was sudden and all-consuming, like wildfire, and about as easily controlled. One minute he’d be laughing and joking, the next he’d have a sword to someone’s throat. No warning. He knew it was a weakness, something he had to learn to master to become a good priest, but Aramis didn’t know how to do anything by half measures. He loved, he laughed, he fought, he was loyal to his friends, and he threw everything he had at life, for better or worse, whatever the consequences. It was simply his nature, and no matter how hard he fought to subdue it, his feelings got the better of him. And that’s what had led him, and all the people he loved, into this mess in the first place. He would not endanger them again. He must learn to control himself.

Anne tried to read the conflicting emotions that passed across his face, but could not. She could see him struggling to compose himself, but found her patience exhausted.

“Answer me, Aramis! Do you regret what happened between us?” she demanded, stepping closer to him.

Aramis closed his eyes and willed himself to be calm.

“I regret hurting you.” he managed.

“That’s not what I asked.” Anne continued, relentlessly. “Do you regret loving me?”

She was too close now. He could not look at her.

“Anne…” it slipped out before he could stop himself, and she realised with a shock that despite everything that had happened between them, he’d never once called her by her given name, not even in her bed at the convent. He’d called her _querida_ , _cariña, amada_ , _embelesa_ \- Spanish endearments that made her feel safe and loved - but not her name.

“ _¿Dónde aprendió_ _a hablar español_ _?_ ” she asked, abruptly.

“ _Que?_ ” he responded, startled, opening his eyes in surprise. She was too close. His heart was beating too fast. Breathe. Just breathe…

“ _¿Dónde aprendió_ _a hablar español_ _?_ ”

“ _De mi abuela._ _Ella era española, de Huesca, Aragon._ ” he answered slowly, grateful to be asked a question he could easily answer.

“ _¿_ _Huesca?_ _Lo sé._ _Pasamos a través de él en el camino a París._ ” She frowned, remembering the scared little girl of fourteen who’d been sent away to marry a king she’d never met. How different she was now.

Looking up at him, Anne wondered about how different their childhoods would have been. This man she loved who was so very different from her. How she could love him yet know so little about him? Did that matter, she wondered? And even as she thought it, realised it did not. What mattered was the strength of his courage, his kindness, his loyalty, his heart. He’d been willing to give his life for her.

Aramis shifted nervously. She was so close to him now he could smell the soap on her skin, and he felt his resolve slipping as she looked up at him, wide-eyed, searching for an answer he was afraid to give. He prayed quietly for courage and unconsciously clutched the crucifix around his neck. _Why are you testing me?_ he pleaded silently. _I vowed to devote myself to you! Will you now abandon me?_

The answer came to him forcefully, not in the voice of God, but of Father Emil. _God is love._ _He knows what’s in your heart, Aramis. Maybe she didn’t nearly die because she loved you – maybe she lived because you loved her – because you were willing to sacrifice your life and soul to save her._

Aramis felt his confusion lifting, the weight that had been holding him down. The last few years of fighting to subdue his nature, his inability to find peace in the monastery, and the words of the Bishop finally made sense. Perhaps God had truly saved him to care for his family, not to turn away from them.

“ _No._ ” he breathed, finally. “ _No me arrepiento de_ _amarte. Sólo lamento_ _no poder_ _estar contigo_.”

Anne’s heart leapt at his words. “ _Pero puede_ _estar conmigo_ _._ ” she whispered. “ _Aquí._ _Ahora. Podemos estar juntos._ ”

Aramis felt the last of his resolve slip away as she looked up at him, her hand coming to rest lightly on his chest. He’d always been so aware of his place, of letting her take the lead, letting him know what she wanted. Now he could see she was waiting for him. She’d declared her feelings, and now she needed to know he felt the same.

“Anne…” he whispered, reaching out to touch her face, reverently.

She leant into his touch, closing her eyes. “ _Ana_ ” she murmured.

“ _Ana_ , _mi amor_.”

He kissed her then, and all thoughts left him. There was only Anne, and this moment, and their hands tangling in each other’s hair, their lips tasting one another like two people dying of thirst. Five years of thinking that they could never have this, never have each other again. So many years of not being able to love as they wanted, overwhelming them both. Aramis felt drunk with desire, the sensation of being touched after so long utterly intoxicating.

* * *

 

In the next room, Constance and D’Artagnan, who had caught snatches of the louder parts of Anne and Aramis’s conversation, waited nervously for one or the other to start banging on the door again and being demanded to be let out, but the sound never came. Instead, after some minutes of silence, they heard the unmistakable scrape and creak of a wooden bed, as Anne and Aramis fell onto it.

“Athos will have my head for this.” d’Artagnan murmured. “Or God will strike me down for letting this happen. I knew a vow of celibacy was too much for Aramis.” he concluded drily.

Constance smiled. “Would _you_ take one?” she teased.

“Absolutely not!” he declared indignantly. “Why I would deny myself such pleasure?”

It occurred to him then, that the best way to maintain ignorance of the act of treason that was very likely happening in the next room was to make sure that the inhabitants of _this_ one were thoroughly occupied.

Assuming Constance had no objections…

She didn’t.


	19. A cottage in The Ardennes, several months later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to return to Paris, Aramis and Anne, Constance and d'Artagnan, find refuge in a small village in The Ardennes where they build a simple life.

Leaving Bétheny, Aramis abandoned his priest’s robes and sat with Anne in the carriage while Constance rode with d’Artagnan up front. They sat holding hands, or with his right arm around her shoulder and her head resting against his, and for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace. The guilt and fear he kept expecting to wash over him never came, and slowly, he began to relax. At first they both just sat, touching, grateful for this little miracle, but little by little, they started to talk and share some of what they’d been through in the last few years.

Anne said nothing of Treville’s struggle to maintain order in Paris, or of the probable treachery of Governor Feron and his Red Guards. Instead she talked about the Dauphin and how his eyes crinkled when he laughed, just like his father, and how he charmed all the servants into spoiling him rotten. The familiar sadness of separation washed over her when she thought of him, and Aramis drew her closer, kissing her forehead, promising she’d see her son again.

He talked about his time in the monastery, his work as a physician, and about the musketeers. Anne loved to hear him talk about his work and his brothers, loved the warmth and affection in his voice. This was the man she’d fallen in love with, a man that loved freely and deeply, without the affectations or the artifice of the court. He didn’t talk about the terrible things he’d seen during the war, but she felt the shadows of the things he didn’t say, just as she’d sensed his sadness when he returned from Savoy. When he sometimes fell silent, she didn’t push, just pulled his arm more tightly around her or kissed his hand. They were both older, sadder people now, and not everything needed to be said.

D’Artagnan was happy to have Constance beside him at last, and secretly grateful it wasn’t safe for the Queen to return to Paris, so that he had an excuse to stay with his wife. He was also deeply grateful for the money Athos had given him, but he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Aramis assured him it wouldn’t have to, but it worried him. They travelled on towards the hills and forests of the Ardennes, heading for a small hamlet which Aramis had visited as a child with his parents. His father had had a distant relative there, long since dead, but he remembered it as a remote and secluded place, the kind of place where people kept to themselves, and where they’d be able to hunt and fish and trade for flour and milk and other provisions.

When they reached the hills, Aramis rejoined d’Artagnan at the front of the carriage, taking the reins and leading the way. It had been a long time since he’d visited the place, but the people there had long memories and remembered the name of his father’s distant cousin. His daughter still lived nearby, and that’s where the physician René de Herblay, his wife Anaïs, his sister Constance, and her husband Charles d’Argenteuil, a farmer, were directed when they explained they were fleeing the chaos fanning out from Paris, looking for a simpler life.

Marie-Elisabeth helped them rent a small cottage from a friend, in the woods a few miles from her own home, and finally, they were able to stop moving.

* * *

 

The cottage was simple, and sparsely furnished, but Marie-Elisabeth helped them acquire the things they needed to make it comfortable. Constance set about the task of teaching Anne how to cook, and clean, at her insistence. At least, she tried, but somehow Aramis always seemed to be there when it came to the cleaning or the fetching and carrying, despite Constance’s attempts to shoo him away. Aramis and d’Artagnan had agreed never to leave the women in the house alone, so when one went out, the other remained, or they all went. D’Artagnan took Constance hunting, improving her aim with the pistol until she could shoot a rabbit – or an intruder – and when Aramis finally professed her an honorary musketeer, they felt more confident leaving the women alone during the day. Over time, as they got to know the locals through Marie-Elisabeth, Aramis felt comfortable allowing Anne to accompany him into the village.

Word soon spread that Cousin René was a physician, and his skills proved to be much in demand. He never had to ask for payment – people showed their appreciation with coin if they had it, or through gifts of produce, wine, cloth, and whatever else they thought would be useful, and as Aramis had predicted, they were able to get by well enough. D’Artagnan spent the last of the money Athos had given him on some chickens and a goat, and some vegetables to start a garden.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” Constance asked him curiously.

“I have no idea,” he replied, honestly, “I suppose until the war ends and the situation in Paris stabilises.”

“And the King and Treville are happy with this arrangement?”

A few weeks after they’d arrived, Charles d’Argentueil had taken one of the horses and rode to La Capelle, a town they agreed was far enough away not to automatically lead anyone in their direction, and sent a message to Treville. He’d returned two weeks later to collect his reply.

D’Artagnan hesitated, “They agreed it would be safer to keep the Queen away from Paris for the foreseeable future. It would be a very different story if they knew Aramis was with us, I’m sure.”

“Won’t Athos tell Treville?”

“No, we agreed before I left that Athos would let Treville believe Aramis is still critically injured.” he hesitated, “Aramis wants to write to Athos instructing him to tell Treville that he didn’t survive his injuries.”    

Constance’s face clearly showed her shock. “But then he could never return to Paris!”

“He knows that.” d’Artagnan replied. “I don’t know if he ever intended to. The war changed him. Changed all of us.” Constance came to stand behind her husband, slipping her hands around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder with a sigh.

“So, what will he do?”

“Return to Doaui, become a monk, or a priest, I assume.”

“What about Anne?! Has he spoken to her about it?”

D’Artagnan shrugged, sighing, “I don’t know, but it wasn’t like he’d ever be able to be with her there, they both know that. He wouldn’t risk her life or the Dauphin’s again. I think that’s why he wants Athos to tell Treville he’s dead.”

Constance shook her head. “There has to be some other way. Promise me you won’t send the letter if he writes it?”

* * *

 

Aramis hadn’t written the letter yet. Indeed, his desire to write it waned as he finally began to recover from his injuries. He’d quickly abandoned the sling, and was able to walk reasonably well after the rest that traveling in the carriage had afforded his ankle, but his ribs and side were still sore. Anne was strangely fascinated by his injuries, and lying in his arms at night, demanded explanations about the different muscles and tendons and how everything worked. It took Aramis a while to realise that it was simply her way of learning about his body, and her own, as she traced the curves of his muscles, or he ran his fingertips along the lines and curves of hers.

Having been denied love for so many years, Anne was selfish, but Aramis was happy to give. He’d always enjoyed the act of pleasing as much as being pleasured, but with Anne, it was different. He worshipped her. With Anne, her pleasure was more important than his own.

She was not unaware of it, and enjoyed the heady sensation of power it gave her. For all the power that being Queen bestowed, she’d never had the freedom to follow her heart or take control of her own life, and Aramis represented the freedom she’d craved. But another part of her, a deeper part that was just a woman not a queen, rejected it. She wanted him to love her as though she were any other woman, longed for him to take charge of their relationship, as she was sure he had done with countless others, and take what he needed from her. She didn’t want to be worshipped, just wanted to be loved. She just didn’t know how to ask.

She finally broached the subject with Constance one day, arguably one of the most awkward conversations either of them had ever had. Anne stumbled over her words, and Constance tried very hard not to think about Anne and Aramis being intimate. She didn’t know how to tell Anne that Aramis might never be able to stop thinking of her as the Queen, just as she herself couldn’t, despite the closeness of their friendship.

* * *

Aramis was proud of how quickly Anne had adjusted to the simple life they were leading, and continued to marvel that she’d chosen him and seemed happy despite their simple circumstances. For her part, Anne had never felt so content. She was with two of the three people she loved most in the world, and felt great pride when she’d learned how to cook a simple meal for them. If it weren’t for the separation from her son, she would have been completely happy.

Some days the separation was worse than others, and then it was like a physical pain that left her almost unable to function. Those were the days when she needed Aramis the most, the nights when she was hungry and selfish, trying to fill the emptiness inside, clinging to him desperately. At first, Aramis was shocked by the urgency of her need, her fierceness, but it was ultimately this that shifted their relationship from that of the Queen and her servant to that of a husband and wife.

“I need you to make me stop thinking about him!” she begged one night. Aramis looked at her with such tenderness she wanted to slap him: that wasn’t what she wanted. “Don’t look at me like that!” she snapped. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“What _do_ you want from me?” he asked, confused.

“I want to be your Ana, not your Queen!”

Aramis hesitated: this was a line he was still afraid to cross. “You’re asking me to forget my place?” he asked slowly. “To behave as if we are equals, and I am not your servant, to treat you as though you are… truly mine?” he whispered, “I don’t know if I can go back from that.”

“I don’t want you to.” she replied passionately. “I don’t want you to worship me, I just want you to love me.”

“I do!” Aramis responded fervently, staring at her in surprise.

“Then show me! Stop being so…” she struggled to find the right word, “…gentle with me. Make me forget about our son, just for a while. Take my mind off him. Force me to think about you, and only you. Show me how to please you, the way you please me.”

Aramis could hear the desperation in her voice, and realised she wasn’t asking for reassurance of his devotion but for distraction, for the kind of love that would make her forget everything and surrender completely. Maybe he could give her that, even if only for a few hours.

* * *

 

Slowly, Aramis began to realise that Anne wanted him to be her husband not only in their bedroom but in all aspects of their life together. It wasn’t an easy adjustment for him, always conscious of the difference in their positions, but as time passed they both grew more comfortable with what they could expect of each other, and Aramis realised that she trusted him to make decisions for her, even if he rarely did. He would always see himself as beneath her in station, but Anne gradually learned to accept this. She also had to make adjustments. She wasn’t used to having her days so full of necessary activities, and wasn’t used to sharing a bed every night. Often, on a warm night, she’d wriggle out of Aramis’s arms, tossing and turning until he found himself forced to the very edge of the bed to escape her fidgeting. He began to appreciate the colder weather, when Anne would snuggle up to the solid warmth of him and allow him to wrap himself protectively around her.

* * *

 

Time passed and the two couples settled into their new life in the forest with surprising ease. Only d’Artagnan was restless, his youthful energy and impatience getting the better of him. Much as he loved the opportunity to be with his wife, a small part of him missed the excitement of being a musketeer and longed to rejoin his brothers. He itched for news from Athos and Porthos, and when word finally came that they’d driven the Spanish out of Nantes he whooped with delight.

Neither Anne nor Aramis had imagined a life of such simple domesticity. Whether it was the war that had finally dulled his appetite for adventure; having work that challenged him; or being with a woman he loved and sharing his life with two of his closest friends, he didn’t know, but Aramis found a contentment he would never have believed possible a few years ago. Deep down, he knew it couldn’t last, that one day it would have to end, but until then, he took every day as the gift it was.

Anne found a freedom she’d never experienced before. Sometimes Aramis allowed her to accompany him to his cousin’s home where he treated patients from nearby communities, and she loved to watch him work, so calm, so confident, so capable, always with that easy charm that reassured those in distress just as it had calmed her all those years ago in the chaos at the Châtelet. When Aramis needed to do something he didn’t want Anne to witness, she retreated to the kitchen or the garden to help Marie-Elisabeth, the first friend she’d ever had that knew her simply as a woman and not as royalty.

One summer’s evening, when d’Artagnan had taken Constance out for a ride, Anne and Aramis sat outside the cottage eating a simple supper together.

“She was wrong.” Anne said quietly, out of nowhere.

Aramis looked up, confused.

“Sister Helene.”

He said nothing for a long moment, overwhelmed that Anne remembered their conversation from so long ago, but then he took Anne’s hand and kissed it.

Yes, he thought, she was. I _can_ see it. I can _feel_ it.


	20. The Ardennes, several months later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Constance entertain their lovers with tall tales around the fire on cold winter nights, and the new year brings the possibility of great joy... but also the threat of heartbreak.

Just how wrong Isabelle had been, had yet to be revealed.

Several months passed, and summer gave way to autumn. A sudden squall prematurely stripped the trees of their leaves, and the two couples found themselves spreading blankets and pillows on the floor and huddling round the kitchen fire in the evenings, drinking wine and brandy and sharing stories. Anne loved to listen to Aramis tell tales of the musketeers, and he loved to tell them. He skipped over some of his more risky exploits with Marsac and the series of lovers that had first brought his name to Anne’s attention, not only to spare her the details, but also because any mention of Marsac was guaranteed to anger both Constance and d’Artagnan and Aramis had no desire to annoy his friends. Tease, yes, but anger, no. Gone were the days when getting a rise out of d’Artagnan was a matter of principle among the older musketeers.

Constance proved to be just as good a storyteller as Aramis, and the two spurred each other on in the manner of siblings, teasing and encouraging in turn. Anne and d’Artagnan sat back and listened to them contentedly as Aramis told tales of the regiment’s heroics, laughing at the obvious embellishments and exaggerations, and Constance retaliated with stories she invented off the cuff about unfortunate young women married off to distant relatives and rescued from unhappy marriages by increasingly daring young thieves or soldiers, or about children who rang rings around the Cardinal or the Red Guards.

“You should write your stories down.” Aramis encouraged, and Anne nodded furiously in agreement, flushed with wine and full of good feeling towards her friend. “We could get them printed.” she added. “Turn them into a book of children’s stories.”

Constance flushed, always uncomfortable with praise. “You should write yours down.” she countered at Aramis.

“I can’t. Mine are true…” d’Artagnan raise an eyebrow at him, and Aramis conceded, “mostly, and would probably land what’s left of the regiment a date with the gallows. But _you_ could. You should!”

Constance laughed it off, but secretly the idea pleased her. One day, maybe not too far in the future she hoped, she and d’Artagnan would start a family, and she loved the idea of sitting down with her children and reading them the stories she’d written, so when Aramis returned from the village one day with paper, ink, and quills, she began to write.

* * *

As it turned out, Constance didn’t have to wait long for her hopes to be realised.

It was Anne who noticed first. It was late January and the forest was deep in snow. The two women remained mainly at home, rarely venturing beyond the garden and the hen house, while Aramis and d’Artagnan left only to treat patients and to hunt or buy wine and flour in the village, and always returned before dark. Anne came in from the garden one afternoon, shaking the snow off her cloak, to find Constance asleep at the kitchen table, slumped across the pages she’d been writing. Anne had only been gone a few minutes. She let Constance sleep, but when she roused an hour or so later, Anne was looking at her oddly.

“Are you feeling alright?” the Queen asked.

“Yes, why?” Constance asked, still groggy from her nap, and a little disoriented.

“It’s just that I’ve never seen you sleep in the middle of the day like that. Are you quite well?”

“I felt a little nauseous this morning, and I didn’t eat much lunch…”

“You didn’t eat any!” Anne interrupted, gesturing to the plate with Constance’s uneaten bread and cheese.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

Anne looked at her shrewdly. “Just today?” she pressed.

“For a couple of weeks now, I suppose.” Constance said, thinking about it. “It’s probably just this wintry weather, making me want to hibernate!” she smiled, and stood up. Instantly regretting it as her head spun. She clutched at her friend’s arm and Anne helped her sit down again.

“Just sit for a while, I’ll make you some tea.” she offered, filling the kettle from the pail and placing it on the fire. Constance did as she was told, not sure whether she wanted to pass out or vomit. She pushed the bread and cheese further away.

“Constance,” Anne began slowly, returning to the table while the water heated, “when’s the last time you bled?”

Constance shook her head, she honestly couldn’t remember, and then the purpose of Anne’s question suddenly hit her. “Oh!” She sat bolt upright and her hand moved unconsciously to her stomach. She looked at Anne with wide eyes, and Anne smiled back at her.

“I take it this is happy news?”

The smile spread slowly across Constance’s face until it became a grin. “How can I be sure?” she asked.

Anne took her hand and squeezed it. “You’ll know in a few weeks, when it starts to show, but let’s ask Aramis for a second opinion when he gets home.” Constance nodded, her earlier exhaustion washed away in a sudden wave of elation. “I’m so happy for you, truly.” Anne smiled, hugging her friend in delight.

* * *

When the men returned an hour or so later, d’Artagnan was carrying a couple of rabbits which he went to hang under the roof outside, out of the reach of hungry foxes, and out of sight of crows and eagles, and Anne hurriedly pulled Aramis into the house and told him her suspicions. It was too early to confirm for sure, but it certainly sounded like Constance was pregnant and she should know for certain soon enough.

When d’Artagnan came into the cottage a few minutes later, Constance broke the news to her husband. His expression turned from disbelief to joy to fear and finally to elation before rounding on Anne and Aramis and upbraiding them. “Why am I the last to know?” he demanded.

Aramis grinned and handed him a glass of brandy. “The father’s always the last to know.” he shrugged, glancing at Anne who laughed in agreement. “Congratulations my friend.” he added, warmly embracing d’Artagnan. “I’m very happy for you both.”

* * *

Later that night, lying in their bed, Aramis was unusually quiet and withdrawn. Anne snuggled up to him, and he pulled her close, but the eager affection with which he usually responded did not follow. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He echoed the question she herself had asked Constance earlier. “Anne, when did you last menstruate?”

Anne frowned. It was hard to keep track, she’d never been regular, Aramis knew that. “A few months ago, I guess.” They’d talked about this before, discussed how to avoid another pregnancy, not because they didn’t want another child, because deep down they both did, but because of the impossibility of their situation and the fact they knew they were living on borrowed time.

“And you haven’t felt sick or unusually tired?” he pushed.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Maybe we should be more careful.”

“Aramis, I’m not pregnant,” Anne assured him, “but I am cold. Warm me up?”

Aramis tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer, but did not respond to the invitation in her words, and she sighed, disappointed. Aramis was silently chastising himself for not being careful enough. He was suddenly as sure that Anne was pregnant as she was sure that she wasn’t. Only time would tell, but in the mean time he vowed to be more careful.

* * *

But it was too late. Aramis’s suspicions were correct. Anne _was_ pregnant, and within a few weeks it was obvious that she was further along than Constance, but simply hadn’t been experiencing many obvious symptoms.

If Constance’s pregnancy had brought them all great joy, Anne’s was the reality check neither she nor Aramis was ready to face. Those first few weeks after they realised, they expected the sky to come crashing down. Aramis barely touched her, which was pointless at this late stage, and Anne was overwhelmed by fear of what the consequences might be for them both.

Constance and d’Artagnan watched anxiously as their friends’ happiness began to evaporate before their eyes. Privately, d’Artagnan wanted to slap Aramis into the middle of next week for being so stupid as to let this happen again, but seeing his friend look so wretched he put such thoughts aside and tried to focus on how they’d get out of this mess. He was frightened that this time it would cost Aramis his life. He cautiously asked about the possibility of doing something to help Anne lose the baby, but Aramis looked at him in horror, “Murder my own child?!” he asked, outraged, the fury evident on his face. D’Artagnan immediately wished he could take back his words. Aramis barely spoke to him for days.

When Anne was resting one afternoon and d’Artagnan was out hunting, Constance decided to intervene. She asked Aramis to chop some firewood for her, and watched silently as he swung the axe repeatedly, taking out his anger at himself and d’Artagnan, and his fears for Anne, on the wood, swinging harder and harder until he was sweating and breathless. When he finally paused, Constance handed him a cup of water, and he collapsed onto the back step beside her.

They sat in silence for a moment and then Aramis ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, swiping at his eyes and the tears that threatened to fall. “What am I going to do?” he whispered desperately.

Constance put her arm around her friend, and rested her head on his shoulder. “What do you want to do?” she asked. “In your deepest heart, Aramis? No obstacles?”

“Marry her, of course. Stay here and raise our child – our _children_.” he corrected. “Be a family, be happy.” he sighed. “ _If_ she were any other woman. Why did I let this happen? I should have stayed in the monastery.” he said miserably.

Constance closed her eyes. “You didn’t find peace there, Aramis, you told me that, remember? The Abbott was right. Maybe God didn’t spare you to serve him, but to care for her. She needs you. You and your son are the only good things to ever happen to her.”

“And you.” Aramis interrupted.

“Yes,” Constance agreed slowly, “and me. Aramis, you have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known, and one of the kindest, but sometimes you’re far too hard on yourself. You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do this on your own. You have me, you have d’Artagnan.”

“D’Artagnan thinks I should kill my baby.” he muttered angrily.

“No, he doesn’t.” Constance said firmly. “He’s just scared that this will cost you your life. You barely got away with it last time. He doesn’t want to lose you, or Anne. Please believe me, Aramis. He feels awful about what he said.” Aramis said nothing, but she could feel some of the anger leave him. “Let us help you.”

“How?” Aramis looked dubious.

Constance took a deep breath. She hadn’t even spoken to her husband about this yet, but she knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing that might give Anne and Aramis a chance. “Let us raise your child.” she said.

Aramis looked at her in amazement. “What?”

“Let us raise your child.” she repeated. “Me and d’Artagnan. How much further along is Anne than I?”

“It’s hard to say. A month, perhaps, two at the most.”

“Close enough that we could raise the children as twins if we don’t let anyone see them for a few months? As long as we remain here, however long that is, you and Anne can raise your child together, but when it’s time to leave, or when they’re old enough to start asking questions we’ll encourage everyone, including them, to believe they’re both my children. When we return to Paris, I’ll live continue to live at the Palace as the Queen’s companion, and Anne will be able to see her child every day. No-one will think to question her closeness to my children after all the time we’ve spent together.”

Aramis's mind reeled. It sounded crazy, but it might actually work. He would have to give us his child, again, but Anne wouldn’t. Giving the child up for adoption had been the only thing that either of them could think of as a way out of their situation, but neither wanted to do that. Anne was finding her separation from the Dauphin hard enough, the thought of being permanently separated from a second child was unbearable. Aramis knew how hard it was to deny parenthood, but at least this way she could watch her child grow up.

“You would really do that for us?” he asked, in awe of Constance and what she was offering .

“Aramis, you’re my closest friends, I love you both dearly. And you’re going to stay with me every moment I’m in labour and deliver my child safely into this world, aren’t you?” Aramis nodded, of course he would. “So yes, of course I’d do that for you – if you’ll let me? Just promise me you will never write that letter to Athos instructing him to tell Treville you died. It would kill Anne knowing that she could never see you again.”

Aramis promised.

“Do you think Anne will agree?”

Aramis hesitated, would she? It would hurt so much not to acknowledge the child as her own, but it was better than any other alternative they’d discussed. “Yes. I think so. And d’Artagnan’s okay with this?”

Constance smiled ruefully. “He will be. I won’t give him a choice!”

“You haven’t discussed this with him?” Aramis looked shocked. “Constance… raising someone else’s child is no small thing.”

“I know, but you are not just someone, and it’s better than watching your friends’ hearts breaking, or seeing a noose around their necks, which is how he fears this will end. I know he’ll agree – happily. He’ll probably be sorry he wasn’t the one to suggest it.”

Aramis took her hand and kissed it warmly, holding on tight, and trying to press all the love and gratitude he felt in his heart into her hand.

“I’ve known many women in my lifetime, Constance, but none as fine as you.” he declared earnestly.

“Except the Queen.” she teased.

“Well, maybe we can agree not to tell her or my older sister I said that.” he smiled before turning serious again. “I’ve done nothing to deserve it, but I’m truly blessed to know and love the three finest women in France.”

* * *

When Anne awoke from her nap, Aramis was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at her almost shyly. It was the first time in weeks she’d seen him smile, and it warmed her heart. “What is it?” she asked, sitting up. He reached out and rested his hand on the swell of her belly, gently caressing the growing curve, allowing himself to feel the things he’d pushed down, the joy and love he’d tried to bury. He couldn’t speak. He crawled onto the bed beside her and pressed a kiss to her stomach, resting his head against the bulge and lay there overwhelmed. After all this time, after all these years, he would finally have a chance to live the life he’d been denied with Isabelle, to be a father, even if only for a while. It was something he’d never expected.

Anne felt the knot of tension she’d been carrying in her chest start to unfurl as Aramis lay there. He’d barely touched her for weeks, and she’d feared he’d never look at her with love (as opposed to fear and regret) again. When he finally lifted his head and looked up at her, her heart leapt at the joy and hope she saw in his face. “Tell me.” she whispered.

So, Aramis told Anne about Constance’s offer.

They sat silently together on the bed, one arm thrown around her shoulders, his other hand resting on her belly, while Anne digested it. A thousand emotions flooded through her. “What about you?” she asked quietly. Aramis knew she meant the question they always avoided discussing.

“I don’t know.” he said, honestly. “Maybe I’ll go back to Douai, or perhaps to our family stables, and live with my sister.”

“How will I see you if you’re not in Paris?”

“We’ll find a way.” Aramis said, with more conviction than he felt, and squeezed her hand. “You know I can’t return to Paris. I’ll never be able to hide my feelings for you and the children and I’ll put you all in danger.”

She knew he was right, but the thought of not seeing him, and him giving up a second child, pained her deeply. She’d longed so hard to be able to share those precious moments with the Dauphin with him, and she knew better than he did how much it would hurt them both to be separated not only from each other but from a second child. How much harder would it be for him second time around, after getting to know his son or daughter, after falling in love with him or her? She understood the sacrifice he was willing to make to ensure she’d continue to have a relationship with both their children, and wished there was another way, but she could not see it. It might break their hearts, but she would be able to see her child every day, and maybe, if they were careful, Aramis would be able to have some kind of relationship with him or her too, through Constance and d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” she finally agreed, “on one condition.”

“What?”

“You promise me that it won’t mean goodbye. Swear that you’ll keep yourself safe, no matter what, and we’ll see each other again, somehow. I want to know that at least one of our children will be able to meet their father one day, even if they don’t know who you are. Promise me that, Aramis!”

“I swear it.”

“You’ll keep yourself safe for me?”

“Always.”


	21. The Ardennes, two children later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Constance give birth to their children and Aramis falls in love again.

Winter gave way to spring, and spring gave way to summer, and Anne blossomed like the bluebells in the woods near the cottage. Her pregnancy went smoothly, and she positively glowed with health and happiness. Poor Constance had a rougher time of it, suffering terribly from morning sickness through most of the spring. Aramis and d’Artagnan rarely left the women alone. Aramis continued to offer his services as a physician, but was always anxious to be back at home as soon as possible, happy to have finally been given the opportunity to prepare for fatherhood.

Apart from occasional hunting trips, d’Artagnan rarely strayed far from the cottage, watching over Constance and Anne like a mother hen, driving Constance to distraction. Impending motherhood had made her even more ferocious than usual, and she was cranky and irritable about being confined to the cottage and the garden, and more than once gave her husband a good slap out of sheer frustration with his fussing! In contrast, Anne was more content than she’d ever been, revelling in Aramis’s affection and attention. To the surprise of them both, she wanted him more than ever, and they made love often.

In the last week of June, Anne gave birth to their second child, a beautiful baby girl with a healthy set of lungs on her. Anne had not wanted Aramis to be present at the birth and see her in such a terrible state, so he’d talked Constance and d’Artagnan through what to do, and spent several anxious hours pacing up and down the stairs to their attic room and round-and-round the kitchen. However, when Anne’s labour pains intensified and she cried out in agony, he could stand it no longer and burst into the room and threw them both out. In the end, Anne was grateful he was there, his voice, as always, soothing and reassuring her, his capable hands the first to hold their daughter.

From the second he held her, Aramis knew he had fallen in love for the final time in his life. The pull he had felt towards the Dauphin had been too strong to ignore, but it was nothing compared to how he felt about his daughter. Cradling her in his arms, singing and rocking her to sleep, filled him with a joy beyond anything he’d ever known. Anne didn’t think she’d seen anything more beautiful than Aramis smiling down at their daughter, her tiny fingers opening and closing around his.

“What shall we call her?” he breathed, as he sat next to Anne on the bed, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding their sleeping daughter on his lap.

“How about Hélène?” Anne suggested softly, hesitantly.

Aramis said nothing for so long, Anne became concerned, but then he nodded slowly, overwhelmed by emotion. Isabelle was the first woman he had loved, and it was fitting that Hélène would be the last. Isabelle had brought he and Anne together, and Hélène would unite them forever.

“Hélène Maria d’Herblay,” he whispered, gazing down at his daughter in awe.

* * *

“It had to be a daughter,” d’Artagnan joked to Constance, “it’s Aramis, after all. It always has to be a woman with him.”

Constance smiled. “Don’t tell Porthos that. He’ll get terribly jealous.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “If Porthos was a woman, they’d have married years ago and had a dozen children by now – probably two dozen given that Aramis only seems to need to look at a woman to get her pregnant!”

“Oh. Is _that_ why I’m having a baby?” Constance asked innocently.

D’Artagnan was about to make a smart remark when he realised: Constance _would_ be having Aramis’s child, they both would. All too soon, Hélène d’Herblay would become Hélène d’Artagnan, and his friend would have to give up the two women he loved most. It was a sobering thought. Could he give up Constance? Not without the fight of his life!

He knew Aramis and Anne had discussed the possibility of faking her death and leaving the country but had quickly dismissed it. Anne couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing the Dauphin again, and Aramis refused to contemplate the idea of his son growing up without his mother. The friend in him wondered whether there was some way to kidnap the Dauphin so the three of them could run away and live their lives together, but the soldier in him had no desire to see France spiral into the civil war that would undoubtedly follow, and he knew Aramis, however strong his feelings for Anne and their children, would never agree to it. The most important thing he could do to support his friends would be to do his best to ease their parting and to raise their daughter as though she were his own, so that no-one would ever expect otherwise, not even their fellow Musketeers.  

* * *

Five weeks after the birth of Hélène, on a hot summer’s night at the beginning of August, Constance went into labour. Her contractions started at night, startling them both awake, and causing d’Artagnan to rush up the stairs and burst into Aramis and Anne’s attic room in a panic, without knocking.

They were both awake. Anne was sitting up feeding Hélène, propped up against Aramis, who was watching them with great tenderness. d’Artagnan turned away immediately, deeply embarrassed by the intimacy of what he’d just witnessed as well as having inadvertently seen the Queen’s bosoms. Men had lost their heads for less.

“Constance?” Aramis guessed, quickly diagnosing the cause of his friend’s panic.

“Yes, sorry.” d’Artagnan really didn’t know where to look.

“Go to her, I’ll be down in a moment.”

D’Artagnan needed no further encouragement to flee the room, leaving Aramis to dress swiftly.

It was not a swift labour, nor an easy one, but Aramis kept his promise to Constance and stayed with her throughout, only leaving the room briefly to relieve himself, holding her hand and reassuring her when her husband’s pacing drove her up the wall and she banished him from the room. Anne sat with d’Artagnan in the kitchen while he fretted. By the time Constance and d’Artagnan’s son was born at four o’clock the following afternoon, Constance was exhausted and d’Artagnan was a nervous wreck. But when he heard his son’s first cries, it was all forgotten and he burst into the room staring in wonder as Aramis settled his son into Constance’s arms.

Aramis retreated to the door, where he and Anne watched happily as a tired but triumphant Constance introduced her husband to his son, Alexandre Charles René d’Artagnan.

* * *

From the very first, Hélène and Alexandre were raised as brother and sister, but in looks and temperament they couldn’t have been more different. Alexandre had his father’s dark hair and eyes, and both parents’ stubborn streak, but was quiet and reserved in nature. He rarely cried but when he did, nothing could settle him. On those occasions Constance and d’Artagnan could do nothing but resign themselves for the duration. In contrast, Hélène was very much her father’s child in spirit, restless and energetic, but with her mother’s eyes and a shock of dark chestnut curls that made her look very much like Constance. She was impatient and cried frequently, but was always remarkably quick to settle, silencing almost at once when her father began to sing.

For the first few months, the two new families confined themselves mostly to the house, with only Aramis leaving regularly to continue his clinics. It was hard to tear himself away from Anne and Hélène, but he knew it was important to establish the pretence that Constance had had twins. Marie-Elisabeth was keen to visit her, but Aramis put her off as long as he could, saying that his sister had had a difficult birth and was not yet up to having visitors, but Anaïs was helping her, and she’d love to see her cousin as soon as she was feeling stronger.

By the time the children were five months old (or Alexandre was, because they agreed to use his birth date) they were both used to being passed from person to person and they all agreed it was safe to present them to the world, or at least, to Marie-Elisabeth and the rest of the village, as Constance and d’Artagnan’s twins. It was a difficult moment for Anne and Aramis hearing their daughter introduced as Hélène Maria d’Argenteuil for the first time, and they gripped each other’s hands tightly. Aramis had told his cousin that he and Anaïs had been trying for many years to have children but without success, so their distress in that moment was interpreted as sadness at not having been blessed themselves.

That night they made love for the first time since Hélène’s birth, pouring all the things they were afraid to put into words into each other with frightening intensity. Just as Anne had been desperate in her need of him when she was missing the Dauphin, Aramis was desperate in his need of her now, as the reality of giving up his daughter began to sink in. Anne, too, was sad, but also thrilled by the urgency of his need for her, his usual restraint and consideration cast aside in the need to lose himself completely. For the first time in their relationship, Aramis took what he needed without concern for her comfort or pleasure, but in his selfishness gave Anne what she had craved for so long, the deep satisfaction of knowing he needed her as much as she needed him, and that she could truly be his wife, and not just the woman he worshipped.

Afterwards, she was sore and bruised but deeply content. Aramis was ashamed of himself, and apologetic for his roughness, but Anne silenced him, tangling her fingers in his hair and kissing him fiercely, reaching between them with her other hand to stroke him insistently until he was panting and whispering her name like a prayer, until he could stand her teasing no longer and pushed her back onto the mattress and claimed her again.

They probably would have made love all night, were it not for Hélène, who interrupted them with a hungry cry, demanding the feed she was accustomed to in the small hours. They broke away from each other, breathless and laughing, and Aramis reached for his daughter while Anne propped herself up.

Things changed between them after that night. They knew they were living on borrowed time, and agreed not to waste a moment with each other, or their daughter. They promised to savour what they had and not dwell on what lay ahead, but they also began to talk about it, to accept it, prepare for it, rather than avoid it. They encouraged Constance and d’Artagnan to spend more time with Hélène, so that when the time came, she would be as comfortable with them as she was with her own parents, knowing that this was the best thing they could do to protect her, and themselves.

Hélène was nine months old the first time she reached for Constance’s breast. She immediately tried to hand her back to her mother, but Anne stopped her.

“Feed her.” she said quietly, “If you don’t mind?”

Constance looked at her friend in shock and surprise. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Anne whispered, “but she needs to know you as her mother. What better way than this?”

Constance looked at Aramis, who had come to stand behind Anne, slipping his arms around her. She could see the struggle clearly written on his face, but he nodded in agreement.

Hélène began to cry, and reached for Constance again.

When d’Artagnan came back into the kitchen with a pail of water, it was to find his wife sitting by the fire feeding Hélène, while her parents watched, tears in both women’s eyes, and Aramis holding Anne so tightly d’Artagnan feared she would break.

But Anne didn’t break, and neither did Aramis. They were doing what they knew they had to do, and every little moment of pain they went through now would make it easier in the long run. Knowing that Hélène would be loved and cared for by two people they loved and trusted as much as Constance and d’Artagnan made it easier to accept, made it possible to bear. Watching their daughter fall asleep in Constance’s arms, they knew they’d made the right decision.

Aramis helped Anne to her feet and, careful not to wake Hélène, bent down to kiss Constance gently on the forehead before leading Anne out into the garden where they held each and cried. Tears of sadness, but also of relief, of release, knowing that whatever else lay ahead, their daughter would be safe and loved.

D’Artagnan sat with his wife, slipping one arm around her shoulders, picking up his dozing son and holding him close while Constance held Hélène.

“I love you.” he whispered, kissing her cheek. “More than life itself.”

“More than our son?” she enquired.

“Even more than our son,” he confirmed, smiling.

“More than our daughter?” she asked, testing out how it sounded, how it felt.

“Well, that remains to be seen.” he teased.

“It doesn’t feel right to call her our daughter,” she confessed, quietly.

“No,” he acknowledged, “but, we’ll say it until it does. We’ll love her until it does. For her sake, and theirs.”


	22. The Ardennes, at the end of the war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Aramis get to spend nearly two years raising their daughter together, but when the war comes to an end, and Treville sends an escort to return The Queen to the Palace, they have no choice but to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. This hurt to write.

Aramis and Anne got to spend almost two years raising their daughter. Aramis got to see her take her first steps, and hear her say her first words. He was there to catch her when she fell, and sing her to sleep, and tell her bedtime stories. He taught her to call Constance “Mama”, and d’Artagnan “Papa”, just as Alexandre did, and she learned to call her mother “Anaïs”, and him “René”, which she pronounced “Wen”. He was there when her first teeth came through and she cried constantly, and when she ate the first food she consented to eat without throwing at her brother. And when she slept through the night for the first time in the small cot they’d set up in the kitchen for the children to share, he and Anne kept sneaking down the stairs to watch them.

Anne got to see him playing with their daughter the way she’d longed for with their son. To see him throwing her up in the air and swinging her round by her hands in the garden, laughing and shrieking until she was dizzy and begged him to stop. She watched him do the same with Alexandre, taking pleasure in both children, even though only one was his. She did the same, as did Constance and d’Artagnan. This was _their_ family, all four of them. She sat and listened as Aramis and Constance told the children bedtime stories, and at night she fell asleep in his arms, knowing that nobody could ever take this time away from them. Anne got to see Aramis so happy she thought she would burst from joy herself. And every precious memory she stored away to be savoured in the future, the way squirrels store their food for winter.

* * *

When the time came to end their beautiful life together, it came swiftly, but in the form of friends.

The war had finally ended, and one day, when d’Artagnan rode into La Capelle to take his regular message to Treville, instead of finding a letter waiting for him, he found Athos and Porthos instead. He could hardly contain his joy at seeing them again, overwhelmed by their congratulations at the birth of the twins and the outpouring of love for him and Constance, until it sank in why there were there.

“We’ve come to escort the Queen back to Paris, on the King’s orders.” Athos confirmed. “Treville was to accompany us, but I persuaded him that we could be trusted to bring her back safely on our own. The fewer of us travelling together, the better, frankly.”

D’Artagnan nodded.

“Is Aramis still with you?”

“Yes. What did you tell Treville?”

“That he returned to the monastery three years ago to convalesce from his injuries. That he’s resigned his commission for good this time, and intends to remain there. Treville expressed the desire to visit him, but fortunately is too tied up with things in Paris. Now that the war is over, he’s been promoted to First Minister.”

D’Artagnan nodded, this was what he’d suspected, and good news. France would be a much better place with Treville as First Minister than it had been under the previous two.

“What does Aramis intend to do?” Porthos asked.

“Return to his sister’s in Argenteuil, and continue to practice medicine, so he can be close to A…” d’Artagnan caught himself, quickly, “the Queen, but far enough away not to arouse suspicion. Unless you think that would be unwise.”

“They’ve been together this whole time?” Athos asked, concerned, just a hint of accusation in his voice.

“What did you think would happen?” d’Artagnan retorted. “He never stopped loving her, or she him.”

Athos and Porthos exchanged worried glances. Porthos had expected no different, but Athos had hoped Aramis would have had the sense to keep his distance, not to allow himself to get so deeply involved again.

“They’ve been living as husband and wife?” he asked, just to be sure he hadn’t misunderstood.

“Yes.”

Athos sighed. “And he expects to continue seeing her when she returns to Paris?”

“No. They both know that isn’t possible. He just wants to remain close enough that he can be there if she needs him. And close to Constance and the children too. He’s very fond of them, and them of him.”

Athos didn’t doubt that. Aramis had always had a soft spot for women and children, and they for him.

“And you. He’s missed you both. We all have.”

“We’ve missed you too, brother.” Porthos replied, pulling d’Artagnan in for another hug.

“How far are they away from here?”

“A good day’s ride. Wait for me here, and give me four days, five, to bring the Queen and Constance here. Time for them to say their goodbyes properly.”

Athos hesitated. “We can’t do that, brother. We promised Treville to escort her ourselves.”

“You can’t come with me! How will we explain your presence in the village? They know Constance and René as brother and sister, me as her husband Charles d’Argenteuil, and Anaïs as his wife. René runs a clinic there, from his cousin’s house, everyone knows us. You can’t just rock up and lead us away without questions being asked.”

“They know her as his wife?! The Queen is known in the village?” Athos almost yelled in horror.

“Athos, keep your voice down.” Porthos cautioned, worried he would be heard outside their room.

“We have a life there. _All_ of us.” d’Artagnan continued undeterred, “What were we supposed to do, keep her locked in the cottage for four years?! Nobody knows who she is, nobody suspects anything. She’s the wife of the local physician, nothing more, nothing less. But if you guys rock up and we all suddenly disappear, then people might start asking questions. Let us say our goodbyes properly, and then we’ll join you.”

Athos sank to his bed, shaking his head in disbelief. Why did everything with Aramis have to be so damn complicated?

“What’s your plan?” asked Porthos. “Please tell me you have one?”

“Yes. I’ll return to the village with a letter from Yvette’s husband, letting René and Constance know that their sister is ill and asking for them, and with the war now over, and things settling down in the countryside around Paris we’ve decided it’s time to return. We’ll ride to Vervins, where nobody knows us, and we’ll meet you at the inn there.”

“And Aramis?”

“He will leave us in Vervins, return to Argenteuil alone.”

“He’s agreed to this?”

“Yes. We discussed the possibilities and developed this plan together. Just give us time to say our goodbyes to cousin Marie-Elisabeth and her family.” he hesitated, before adding softly, “Give them the chance to say goodbye.” To each other, and their daughter, he thought, but did not say.

Porthos nodded, and Athos reluctantly agreed. “Okay, but four days, no more. One to return, two to say your goodbyes and pack, and we’ll meet you in Vervins on the fourth day. I don’t want to lie any more than I have to, and Treville and the King are anxious for her return.”

“How anxious?”

“Well, the good news is that the King has taken a mistress, so the Queen will probably not be required to keep him company much on her return.” Porthos said drily.

“The bad news is that his new mistress is not popular, and he’s anxious for the Queen’s return to deflect attention away from them and restore an air of respectability to the Palace.” Athos continued, with a hint of disgust in his voice. “Whatever people though of the Spanish Queen, she was respected for her nobility at least. The same cannot be said of his mistress.”

“And what of the Dauphin?” asked d’Artagnan. “I know they’ll be anxious for news.”

Athos firmly ignored the ‘they’. “The Queen’s son,” he emphasised, “is well, but that’s why Treville is anxious for Her Majesty’s return. He fears that the Dauphin has become quite spoilt without his mother and Constance’s influence and is keen to see that restored as soon as possible.”

“So, Constance is to live at the Palace?”

“Indeed, and you too. Treville wants to appoint you as personal bodyguard to the Dauphin. He suggested it would be an appropriate reward for loyal service to the Queen, and that it would be an easier adjustment for the Queen not to be parted from her faithful companion of so many years. The King was happy to accept his suggestion. You will have your own apartments in the Palace, close to the Queen’s. I assume you don’t have any objections?”

“No! No, indeed!” d’Artagnan grinned in relief. This was what the women had hoped for, Constance being able to remain in the Palace with the Queen, and Anne being able to see her daughter every day. He knew nothing would make Aramis happier than knowing their family would stay together, knowing that both his children would be cared for by the people he trusted most.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other in relief. They hadn’t been at all sure what d’Artagnan’s reaction would be to living in the Palace. They’d half expected the impetuous and daring young soldier they’d once known to be horrified by the idea of playing nursemaid to the Prince and being couped up in the Palace, but the war had changed them all, and perhaps fatherhood had changed d’Artagnan more than any of them. Treville was deeply concerned about the Dauphin’s education and upbringing and was convinced that d’Artagnan’s influence would be key to setting him on the right path.

“The women will be delighted.” d’Artagnan assured them. “The Queen has missed the Dauphin terribly, and become very attached to Alexandre and Hélène. I’m sure it will make her very happy to see her son again, and have us all close by.”  

“Good. Then we’re agreed. We will meet you in Vervins four days from now.” d’Artagnan nodded.

Although he usually spent a night in La Capelle, he was anxious to return to the village as soon as possible, and after a hasty meal, gave his fellow musketeers a hug and took his leave.

* * *

Before he even entered the cottage early the next morning, after riding through the night, Anne and Aramis knew what was coming. The sound of his horse arriving unexpectedly, shortly after dawn, the fact they he didn’t call out happily to Constance as he usually did, told them all they needed to know. They curled into one another, clinging to each other, Aramis stroking her hair and telling her over and over again that he loved her, and he would always love her, while Anne sobbed silently.

Several hours passed before they were able to go downstairs and face the news. Constance and d’Artagnan were waiting in the kitchen, the children nowhere to be seen.

Aramis looked around anxiously. “Where are they?”

“In the garden, feeding the chickens.” Constance’s voice didn’t sound quite like her own. It seemed she’d been crying too.

“How long?” he asked d’Artagnan.

“Two days.”

Aramis said nothing, not trusting himself to speak but tightened his grip on Anne’s hand.

d’Artagnan continued. “Treville sent Athos and Porthos. He wanted them to come here, but I persuaded them not to. They agreed to our plan. We’ll meet them in Vervins in three days time.”

Two more days, two more nights together.

“I need to go and tell Marie-Elisabeth.” he said numbly, turning to Anne. “About Yvette.” She nodded. They all knew the plan. “I’ll pack my things at the clinic, and then I’m coming straight back here.” She nodded again, and squeezed his hand. Aramis turned back to d’Artagnan. “I’ll need your horse later.”

D’Artagnan frowned, surprised. This was not part of the plan. “Why?”

“Because tonight I’m taking my wife and my daughter and spending a night alone with them, somewhere there’s not here, somewhere that’s just us.” It was the only time he had ever referred to Anne as his wife in private.

“Aramis…” d’Artagnan warned.

“This is not open to discussion.”

Anne intervened. “This is _my_ decision, _my_ desire, to spend one night alone with my family before I have to give them up and go back to being the Queen. One night to be truly and completely on our own together.”

D’Artagnan opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, torn between wanting to tell them it was a terrible idea, and not wanting to deny the Queen this simple wish.

“Where will you go?” he asked Aramis.

“Into the hills. That place we found a few years ago, by the stream.”

“Sleeping rough?” d’Artagnan asked, horrified by the idea of the Queen sleeping on the ground.

“Camping.” Aramis corrected.

D’Artagnan shook his head. “I can’t let you do this.”

“You can’t stop us.”

“I can! I won’t let you take the horse!”

Constance put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Yes, you will.” she said gently. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Athos and Treville will kill me.” D’Artagnan mumbled, not unreasonably.

“Kill the Dauphin’s new bodyguard? I don’t think so. Besides, they’ll never know.”

“Wait, the _what_?” Aramis and Anne interrupted together.

Constance smiled. “Well, there’s _some_ good news…” she began.

* * *

As expected, Anne and Aramis were delighted at the news of d’Artagnan’s promotion and about Constance and d’Artagnan living at the Palace. Anne was also delighted to learn of the King’s mistress. She had no desire to be intimate with her (lawful) husband again. Aramis was less so. He hated the thought of her being subjected to the public humiliation she’d been through with Milady, however pleased he was that Anne was unlikely to be subject to the King’s advances.

After catching up with all the news from Paris, he took his leave and walked over to his cousin’s house, to tell her the sad news of Yvette’s illness and their need to return to Argenteuil immediately. In truth, he’d been dreading this. He was deeply grateful for his cousin’s friendship and her warm and trusting nature which had helped them to integrate so easily into an otherwise closed community, and helped to keep them safe. He hated having to lie to her, first about the twins, and now about this. After so many years of subterfuge as a musketeer, lies usually came easily to Aramis, but these he found harder than most. He didn’t know how to express his gratitude for something he knew he couldn’t confess.

He packed up the medical equipment he kept at Marie-Elisabeth’s house, and promised that Constance and Anais would stop by tomorrow to say farewell, before taking an emotional leave of his cousin.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Aramis and Anne headed off into the hills with Hélène. Aramis and Anne walked, leading the horse carrying food and blankets, and pillows and their daughter, firmly secured in the nest of bedding. After a couple of hours they reached the place Aramis had in mind. A clearing in the forest on the side of a hill, beside a stream, with a view west towards the sunset. Aramis made a fire, and Anne prepared dinner, both thinking about how far they’d come since Anne’s first adventure in cooking: that first charred fish on a fire by a stream in the woods.

“It was awful, wasn’t it?” she said.

Aramis laughed, “Deliciously awful, Your Majesty.”

“Fish!” Hélène called out, delightedly, from the banks of the stream.

“Where?” Aramis called out.

“There!” Hélène cried, pointing to a pool. “Fish!”

“Well, let’s try and catch it!” Anne called back, tossing the last of the potatoes into the fire and heading down to the stream. “Coming?” she directed over her shoulder to Aramis with a grin.

He jumped up and raced after her.

* * *

Thirty minutes later and they were all soaking wet, shaking with laughter, and every fish in the stream had long since moved on to somewhere quieter.

“You’re losing your touch.” Anne teased.

“Well, I kept getting distracted.” he retorted, pushing a wet strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Apparently I didn’t distract you last time.” she pouted.

“Well, you didn’t kiss me last time.” He laughed, kissing her. “And this little one,” he said, turning to his daughter, “wasn’t trying to drain the stream of every last splash of water!”

“It kept coming back!” she complained.

“Yes, cherie, it does that!” Anne smiled, picking her up and drying her off with a blanket.

* * *

The three of them ate dinner watching the sun set over the forest, and before the last rays of light were gone, Hélène was fast asleep, worn out by all the adventure. Aramis wrapped her in a blanket and popped a pillow under her head, placing her close to the warmth of the fire, even though it was mild May evening.

“Are there wolves here?” Anne asked anxiously.

“If there are, they won’t come near us or the fire.” Aramis answered.

“What about bears?”

“I have my pistol.” he assured her. “Nothing will harm us.”

Aramis spread the blankets and pillows on the ground and they lay down beside each other, holding hands and looking up at the sky, watching the stars come out, one by one, Aramis naming some of the ones he recognised. As the heat of the day began to fade and a chill crept into the air, Anne wriggled closer.

“I wanted to kiss you.” she said quietly.

“When?”

“That day by the stream,” she confessed. “and before then. Long before then. From the first moment I met you, really.”

“Really? All those years ago?”

“Yes. I was infatuated with you for a long time.”

Aramis was silent for a moment. He hadn’t known that. He _should_ have known that. “That day at the Chatelet, when you reached up to touch my cheek, that’s when I first thought about kissing you. That’s why I pulled your hand away. Then later, when you gave me the crucifix, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“That’s when you let me touch you.”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t have. Women have always been my weakness.” he sighed.

“I thought obedience was your weakness?”

“That too,” he laughed softly, “I have many.”

“I love your weaknesses.” she teased, running her fingers over the one place she knew he was ticklish.

“I love your strength.” he countered, lacing his fingers through hers and pulling her hand up to his lips to kiss.

They fell silent again, pressed up close against each other, looking up at the stars.

“You’ll keep your promise to me?” she whispered.

“ _Siempre, Ana, y para siempre._ ”

* * *

It was the first and only night Anne and Aramis had truly spent alone together, away from everyone. While Hélène slept soundly, they made love to each slowly, gently, quietly, committing every last curve, and dip, and sigh to memory. When the first rays of light began to creep over the horizon, Aramis nudged her awake as he retrieved the small bundle that was their daughter, and settled her between them, each holding a tiny hand in theirs while the sun slowly but surely rose above the tree tops.

When Hélène woke, they ate the apples Anne had brought for breakfast, dismantled their little camp and reluctantly returned to the cottage, and reality, and began to pack.

That night on the hillside sustained them through all the difficulties that were to come. It was the farewell they knew they couldn’t say in public, and the promise that they would never say goodbye. It was the moment of peace and togetherness they might never have again, but would always and forever know they had.


	23. Paris and Argenteuil, six months later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne and Constance resume their lives in Paris, while Aramis returns to the family stables. They all try to make the best of it.

The evening before their agreed rendez-vous with Athos, d’Artagnan had driven the carriage, carrying Anne, Constance, and the two children into Vervins, and the five of them had checked into the inn.

Aramis was not with them.

Neither he nor Anne could face a long drawn-out goodbye, so by mutual agreement he’d silently ridden away shortly before they reached the town. It had taken every ounce of self-discipline not to look back, even though he knew Anne was in the carriage and wouldn’t be able to see him.

d’Artagnan watched him until he was just a dot in the distance. _Farewell, my friend_ , he whispered, as Constance slid into the seat beside him and lay her head on his shoulder, leaving Anne a moment of privacy as the sound of the second set of hooves faded away and they knew he was gone.

* * *

 

On their arrival the next morning, Athos and Porthos registered Aramis’s absence with disappointment. They’d both been looking forward to seeing him again after so long, but a glance from d’Artagnan warned them to say nothing in front of Anne and the children. Anne was barely holding herself together, and Constance had her hands full with both children who kept asking for Wen. None of them had slept much the night before. After conveying their warmest congratulations to Constance, they got on the road as quickly as possible, Porthos driving the carriage, while d’Artagnan rode on ahead with Athos and explained that Aramis had felt it easier all round if he went on ahead to Argenteuil and hoped that they would be able to see his brothers there soon.

* * *

 

Aramis didn’t travel directly to Argenteuil, but instead veered north and rode to Douai. He needed to see Father Emil and thank him for all he had done for him, and let him know that he wouldn’t be returning to the monastery as he’d once planned.

Father Emil was delighted to see him again, and greeted him warmly, but wasn’t surprised at the news that Aramis would not return. What he was surprised about was the change he sensed in his former novitiate, a calmness that had never been present before. The man who stood before him was no longer a soldier or a monk, but something else.

“You found what you were looking for.” he observed.

“I did.”

“A family.”

Aramis nodded.

 _“Your_ family.”

Aramis hesitated, uncertain as to whether to burden Father Emil with his secret, or not.

“I heard about the Queen’s abduction, and the rumour that she’d been rescued by one of the Musketeers and was in hiding. When Treville wrote, under the impression you’d returned here, I put two and two together. Have you been with her all this time?”

“For nearly 4 years.” Aramis replied softly. He hesitated again before confessing, “We have another child, a daughter. Or, Constance and d’Artagnan do.” he reminded himself.

If Father Emil was shocked he didn’t show it. “What will you do now?” he asked.

“Return to Argenteuil to live with Yvette. I need to be near her, them.”

“Will you try to see her?” the older man asked, showing just the hint of alarm for the first time.

Aramis hesitated. “No.” he said, sadly, “It’s too risky. But Constance and d’Artagnan have promised to bring their twins, Hélène and Alexandre to visit their Uncle Wen.”

The Bishop raised an eyebrow in question.

“They couldn’t say René.” Aramis smiled ruefully. “She grew up calling them Mama and Papa, and us Nay and Wen.” He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh.

Father Emil put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Anything you need, my son. Anything.”

Aramis looked at him gratefully. “I can’t thank you enough for your understanding, and for everything you’ve done for me. You set me on the path to where I needed to be.”

Father Emil looked away for a moment, “I have a confession too.” he began, taking a deep breath.

“I once loved a woman I shouldn’t have. And when she died, it broke my heart. When her son came to me for help, I turned him away, because I couldn’t bear to see her in him every day. I didn’t have the courage. I lived with that guilt for a long time, until one day he came here seeking my help again, and I had the chance to put things right. For her, for you, and for myself.”

Aramis didn’t know what to say. He was already raw with emotion from the last few days, and Father Emil’s confession left him speechless.

The Bishop reached into his robe and pulled out a folded note of paper.

“Here,” he said simply, handing it to Aramis, “this is the name of a Jesuit priest who helped protect people of Spanish descent during the war. He smuggled many who were threatened out of the country. If you ever need help and you can’t come to me, go to him. He will help you.”

“Thank you.” Aramis took the paper and tucked it into his pocket, pausing before asking quietly, “Did she love you, my mother?”

“No.” Father Emil replied evenly, without bitterness. “There was never anything between us, but I loved her anyway.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. God works in mysterious ways. If I’d accepted you into the seminary you would never have become a musketeer, the Queen might never have had a son, and France might have been plunged into a civil war that lasted longer than the war with Spain. Maybe this was always His design: that I help her son to find his true purpose.”

“To seduce the Queen and endanger the kingdom?” asked Aramis, wryly.

“To protect her, and her son, and the future of France.” Father Emil said gently. “Do you still doubt that?”

Aramis shook his head, “No. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

The two men sat quietly for a while before Aramis asked if he could join the monks in prayer that evening. “Of course!” said Father Emil, “Father Augustin will be delighted to see you. I fear he will not be with us much longer.” he added sadly. “Stay with us a few days?” he suggested.

“I would like that very much.”

So, Aramis spent a few days in Douai, talking and praying with his brothers, and contemplating the many lives he had already lived, the blessings he had been given, and the life that lay ahead. When he departed for his sister’s house in Argenteuil he felt more ready to face it.

* * *

 

Six months had passed since their return to Paris, and Anne still hadn’t fallen back into the Palace routine. The fine clothes and jewellery she had once delighted in no longer brought her any joy. They felt too stiff, too restrictive, and the constant presence of ladies-in-waiting infuriated her. She did not need help to dress herself! As the weeks passed she slowly dismissed them, angering Louis, who couldn’t understand her impatience with being waited upon hand-and-foot. In public she remembered the role she was supposed to play, and played it well, attending banquets and formal occasions and graciously entertaining guests, restoring an air of respectability to the Palace as was expected of her, but in private she and Louis barely spoke, and she confined herself mainly to her apartments and the Palace gardens.

She longed for the simple life of the cottage almost as much as she missed Aramis’s arms at night, and was deeply grateful for the presence of Constance and the children, whose companionship made it bearable. The first few weeks without him were as painful as she’d known they would be, but at least she had the children to distract her.

The hardest part of being back in Paris was the one thing she’d looked forward to most. Her initial joy at being reunited with the Dauphin was swiftly replaced with dismay when her son, now nine years old, greeted her like the stranger she’d become to him. He’d become spoilt and demanding in her absence, fawned on by Louis and the courtiers to the detriment of his manners. It pained her greatly that her joy at seeing him again was not reciprocated, but was deeply grateful to Minister Treville who seemed to be the only positive influence on her son. She was even more grateful for him appointing d’Artagnan as the prince’s personal bodyguard.

* * *

 

Constance and D’Artagnan took up residence in the palace, in rooms close to the Queen and the Dauphin. Anne had insisted upon it, and Louis, in a mood to be generous on her return, had agreed. It was a modest apartment, by the standards of the palace, but it had three rooms – two bedrooms, and a drawing room with a large hearth that also served as a kitchen. As Constance and D’Artagnan, like Minister Treville, were neither courtiers nor servants, in the traditional sense, they were not required to eat with the other palace staff. Treville and D’Artagnan were sometimes required to attend formal dinners, but Constance, for the most part was free to do as she pleased, and spent most of her time during the day with Anne and the children. When the weather allowed, the four of them retired to the gardens. Alexandre and Hélène were still young, and adapted quickly to their new surrounds. The palace had never heard so much laughter.

At first, the Dauphin was aloof and guarded, and Constance could see it hurt Anne deeply, but as time passed, so did his stiffness. He quickly took a shine to d’Artagnan, who did not hesitate to put the young prince in his place if his conduct was anything less than gentlemanly, and after the first few awkward months, the genuine affection and warmth of his mother and Constance began to soften the pompous affectations he’d acquired in their absence. As Treville had suspected, all the boy needed was a little discipline and his mother’s love to counter the sycophantic attentions of the court. The young Louis quickly learned that he had to earn d’Artagnan’s praise, rather than it being given automatically, and his new tutors, appointed by Minister Treville and the Queen were instructed not to give praise where it wasn’t due.

The King’s mistress, delighted to find the boy increasingly occupied with d’Artagnan and his lessons, did her best to ensure her lover’s attention was where she felt it belonged – on her. While she resented the Queen’s return, it changed little outside formal occasions: indeed, it was several weeks before their paths even crossed. When they did, Anne was both courteous and gracious, happy to be spared a relationship she didn’t want with her husband, and Colette, who had expected to be slighted and condescended to, instead found herself being coolly appraised by a woman whose interests she strongly suspected lay elsewhere. Perhaps with that handsome young husband of her close companion, or one of his friends who were often at the palace? Captain Athos certainly carried a few secrets, of that she was sure. In any case, she was shrewd enough to realise that her position was not threatened, and having no desire to rock the boat, kept her suspicions to herself. The two women found themselves surprisingly magnanimous towards each other.

D’Artagnan might once have protested a decision that took him away from the excitement and camaraderie of his fellow Musketeers, but after too long away from Constance during the war, he genuinely welcomed the opportunity to stay in the palace with her and their two young children. Nobody ever knew that Hélène was not their daughter, or suspected that the Queen’s attachment to her was anything other than a result of her being at Constance’s side over the last few years.

Unlike the King, the young Louis grew up loved and protected, tutored by the finest scholars in the nation, but also by the Musketeers who sheltered him from the influence of those who might corrupt him. Alexandre and Hélène also helped to keep him grounded. At first, the Dauphin was jealous of the attention they received from his mother and Constance, unaccustomed to not being the centre of everyone’s attention, but when he realised that he was no less important to the women and didn’t have to compete for their affection, became increasingly fascinated by the twins. He’d had very little contact with other children, but, like his father, had a strongly protective streak that simply needed something to focus on. That something became the twins.

No one at court remembered Rochefort’s accusation that the musketeer Aramis was the Dauphin’s father, or if they did, they must not have known him, because as the influence of the court waned, and of his mother, Constance, and d’Artagnan grew, the young Louis grew more and more like his father, and no one seemed to notice. Anne was grateful her son had enough of her colouring not to arouse suspicion, but there was something in the jut of his chin, the way he absent-mindedly ran his hands through his mop of unruly hair, a certain look in his eyes around the twins, that was unmistakably Aramis. She wished she could tell him how proud she was of the young man he was becoming, but they’d made a promise to each other, and she would not be the one to break it.

Constance, however, had made no such promise, and she wrote often to Aramis, saving up her letters for the two or three times a year she rode out to Argenteuil with Athos and/or Porthos when they visited Aramis at the stables, ostensibly to purchase new horses for the regiment. The visits were always carefully timed to ensure Treville could not accompany them and maintain the pretence that Aramis had returned to the monastery, but sadly that usually meant d’Artagnan could not go with them either.

As Aramis had once predicted, Constance and Yvette hit it off immediately, the two women recognising each other in themselves, just as he had. Aramis had confessed his affair with the Queen to his sister and her husband, but did not tell them about the children. It hurt him to keep the whole truth from his sister, but it was a secret too dangerous for them to carry. It was equally hard to hide it from Athos and Porthos, so he looked forward to Constance’s visits as the one person from whom he had nothing to hide.

His friends said nothing when he and Constance invariably slipped away for an hour or two while they looked at the horses, knowing she would have news of the Queen and the Dauphin to share with him. They would retire to a quiet corner of the stables or the attic, where they couldn’t be overheard, and Constance would tell Aramis the things he longed to hear about his family, and listen while he told her the things he ached to share with Anne. Constance always brought the letters she’d written him, news of Anne and Hélène and the Dauphin disguised as fictional children’s stories. And once a year she brought Alexandre and Hélène with her. D’Artagnan was against it, but Anne overruled him, and it was hard to argue with the Queen.

* * *

 

Aramis hadn’t see his daughter for over a year, and he was torn between overwhelming love and pride, and the almost unbearable sadness that he couldn’t claim her as his own. This is the real penance for my sins, he thought: never being able to show the true depth of my love for my family. However, his fear that his daughter would not remember him was unfounded. Although much time had passed, and the children were initially wary, it wasn’t long before they were laughing and playing and climbing up hay bales to jump on Uncle Wen’s back, and Aramis felt his heart swell with so much joy, he thought he would burst. When the time came for them to return to Paris, he thought it would break.

Porthos and Athos said nothing. Aramis had always enjoyed being around children, and he’d obviously become very fond of the twins, but when it came time to say goodbye, they both noticed how much tighter he seemed to hug Hélène, and exchanged curious glances. On the ride back to Paris, Constance felt it prudent to drop into the conversation that while Alexandre had been an obvious choice of name for their son, she had not wanted to name their daughter after her mother, to whom she had not been close, and it had been Aramis that suggested the names Isabelle or Hélène, a reasonable explanation for his affection for the girl.

Yvette, however, watching her brother closely, came to the inescapable conclusion that there was something he wasn’t telling her, and it didn’t take much imagination to connect the dots. She said nothing to him or her husband, but the next time Constance brought the twins found ways to keep her husband and Porthos’s attention away from Aramis and the children. How they could not see it, she could not fathom: it was so very obvious to her.

And so, several years passed. Aramis continued to offer his services as a physician, and was able to contribute a steady income to support his sister’s family and expand the stables. The pain of separation from Anne and his daughter gradually subsided into a dull ache, soothed by the warmth and affection of Yvette’s family, and work that kept his mind and hands occupied from dawn until dusk. He knew he would never feel completely content without Anne and the children by his side, but found he was still able to find a measure of joy in the small pleasures of his daily routine: beginning and ending his days with prayers, and filling it with work in the service of his others – his patients, the horses, his sister’s children.

His nieces and nephews adored their uncle, and never tired of hearing stories of the musketeers and their exploits – but only after he was satisfied they had completed their lessons and knew how to defend themselves, and others. Bertrand occasionally grumbled that Aramis was turning their already-unruly children into even more headstrong young men and women, but in truth he was grateful to his brother-in-law for their improved education. Managing seven children and the stable had always been a challenge for only two pairs of hands. While he couldn’t see the use in his teenage daughters learning how to handle a sword or pistol, especially now that the war was over, he appreciated the improved focus and discipline that came with it.

Aramis was as happy as he could be, under the circumstances.

But it was three long years until he saw Anne again.


	24. Paris & Argenteuil, 3 years after the end of the war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dauphin's twelfth birthday brings an unexpected gift that prompts King Louis to arrange an unexpected trip with potentially dangerous consequences. While the Musketeers prepare for the worst, Constance and Yvette see an opportunity.

By the time the young Louis turned 12, peace and prosperity were beginning to return to France. The long years of war, and the toll it had taken, were relaxing their grip on the country, and the fields were ploughed and maintained, and the harvests good. Minister Treville had dismantled what remained of the Red Guard, and Athos and Porthos had been instructed to rebuild the musketeer regiment to fulfil their traditional role, and also that of the Red Guards. Treville had earned the respect of the King’s Council, and together they worked hard to rebuild France. King Louis himself took little interest in affairs of state, preferring to spend his time with his mistress, or hunting with his son, which suited everyone.

Under the tutelage of d’Artagnan and Athos, the Dauphin had become a skilled horseman, and could handle a sword and a pistol as well as anyone his age. His courage was remarkable. The King and Queen had little to do with each other beyond public functions, but in one thing, they were united: they were enormously proud of their son.

On the occasion of his twelfth birthday, King Philip of Spain, in a gesture of conciliation, sent his nephew a fine Andalucian horse: a magnificent animal that the young Louis was desperate to ride, but the King would not hear of it. He was not ready to forgive Spain yet, and refused to allow his son to be seen riding a Spanish stallion. Treville tried to reason with him, but Louis was adamant.

The young prince was furious and seethed with the injustice of it, on the verge of reverting to the spoiled brat he had very nearly become in his mother’s absence, but the King would not relent. “You will find him a French horse!” he demanded of Treville. “A fine charger, like the one Captain Athos recently acquired. An admirable beast. Where did he acquire him?”

“From the stables at Argenteuil, I believe, where the regiment sources most of our horses.”

“Good. Then you will arrange it. Athos and d’Artagnan can take him to the stables and he can choose his own mount.” The King nodded, pleased with his plan. He made to leave Treville’s office, then stopped and turned back. “Argenteuil is only half a day’s ride, is it not?” Treville nodded. “On second thoughts, let’s have an outing. We will all go.”

“All, sire?”

“Yes, all of us. It has been too long since I visited the country, and it will be good for the people to see the King and Queen out and about, show them the unrest is truly behind us. Arrange it Treville. We will go the day after tomorrow.”

“Your Majesty…” Treville objected, two days wasn’t long enough to make all the necessary arrangements for royal excursion, but the King was already walking away.

He summoned Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan to his office, and outlined the King’s intentions and is concerns. “At least we know there will be no threat at the stables,” he noted, “we know can trust Yvette and Bertrand, but I am not comfortable with the King and Queen travelling together with the Dauphin. We cannot risk it.”

The three musketeers exchanged worried glances, but could not voice their real concern to Treville.

“I agree,” Athos replied swiftly, “the King and the Dauphin cannot travel in the same carriage. Leave it with us. We will make the necessary arrangements.”

“Good.” Not for the first time, Treville wished Aramis was still with the regiment. He would have felt better with all four of them as escorts, particularly given Aramis’s knowledge of the area, but all things considered, it was best that he was a long way away from the Queen and the Dauphin. Now that things were settling down in France, perhaps he would have a chance to visit him at the monastery.

* * *

 

As soon as they were safely out of earshot, d’Artagnan turned to his brothers. “This is a terrible idea!” he hissed. “If Treville knew Aramis was at the stables he would never have agreed to this.”

Porthos nodded in agreement, and Athos sighed. “We will send word to Argenteuil immediately. Warn Aramis that we – that _they_ – are coming.”

“What about the Queen?” asked Porthos, “Wouldn’t it be better for her, for both of them, for her to remain in the Palace?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan agreed wholeheartedly, “but you heard what Treville said. The King insists it is a family outing.” He didn’t add what he was thinking, that the temptation to see Aramis might prove too much for Anne.

“I see no way to avoid this,” Athos commented, “all we can do is ensure neither Aramis nor the Queen are compromised.” He turned to d’Artagnan, “You must speak to Constance and make sure Her Majesty understands. Porthos, find a messenger, someone we can trust. Make sure he’s ready to leave first thing in the morning. It is too late in the afternoon, and we must be sure of our arrangements first.”

“What about Aramis? Will he be able to resist the temptation to see the Queen and the Dauphin?” Porthos turned to d’Artagnan, the concern evident on his face.

D’Artagnan made a gesture of uncertainty. “He won’t do anything to endanger the Queen, of that I am certain, but whether he can resist the temptation to catch a glimpse of his son? I don’t know.”

The three friends reflected on the risks the former musketeer had taken for his family in the past. “We plan for the worst.” Porthos said soberly, extending his hand. Athos and d’Artagnan nodded and took it.

“All for one.” they agreed quietly.

* * *

 

“I will not go!” the Queen declared to d’Artagnan. “The risk is too great. I will feign illness.”

To d’Artagnan’s relief, Constance quickly agreed, but their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the King in the Queen’s apartments, announcing their excursion.

“I am not feeling well, sire. I beg to be excused.”

“Nonsense, Anne! You look perfectly well to me. You take every possible opportunity to leave the Palace and explore the Gardens, you think I don’t notice these things, but I do. How can you refuse a trip to the country? Besides, think how disappointed our son will be if his mother doesn’t accompany him?”

“But, sire…”

“No buts, Anne, I will not hear of it. Why must you always spoil things? I ask very little of you, you will not refuse me this. We are all going.”

Louis retreated in annoyance, and Anne sank onto the divan in despair.

“D’Artagnan, you must warn him. He cannot be there. If I see him, I might betray us both. And if he sees the Dauphin he might betray himself.”

“Athos has already arranged to send word at first light tomorrow. He will have at least a day’s notice.” D’Artagnan assured her. “It will not come to that.”

The Queen smiled weakly, and Constance squeezed her hand reassuringly. “You are so good to me. I don’t know what I would do without you. I’m so sorry for the risks you take to keep our secret, and so very grateful.”

D’Artagnan looked uncomfortable, as he always did when someone expressed their gratitude.

“Has Athos written to Aramis yet?” Constance asked her husband.

“To Yvette and Bertrand.” he corrected, “No, we wanted to be sure of our arrangements first. Why?”

“Perhaps he could mention that the Queen would appreciate somewhere private to refresh herself after the journey and avoid… the dirt and smell of the stables?” she improvised. “Perhaps Yvette could prepare somewhere quiet for Her Majesty to rest?”

“Yes,” Anne agreed swiftly. “I’d prefer not to be looking around every corner, both hoping to see him and praying he isn’t there.”

D’Artagnan nodded. It was a good idea. The King could not object to his wife wanting to rest after the journey, and the Dauphin would no doubt be too excited about choosing a horse to be upset by his mother’s not accompanying him round the stables. Nobody would find it strange, and it would spare the Queen unnecessary worry. “I’ll recommend it. I’m sure Athos will agree to it.”

* * *

 

Athos did agree to it. It was a simple ploy to remove the Queen from a situation that could potentially incriminate her, without arousing suspicion. “Constance has the instincts of a musketeer.” he commended.

“Constance IS a musketeer.” Porthos corrected. Nobody disagreed.

“We’ve arranged two carriages. The King and Queen will travel in one, and you and the Dauphin will travel in the other.”

“What about Constance?”

“She’ll remain here at the Palace with the children.”

“No. The Queen may need her. It will be stressful enough for her. Constance must travel with her.” D’Artagnan said firmly.

Athos and Porthos exchanged looks, and Porthos shrugged.

“Alright.” Athos consented. “She can travel in the carriage with the King and Queen, and Treville can ride with us. But the children remain here at the Palace. We don’t want them asking for their Uncle Wen.” D’Artagnan nodded. He and Constance had already discussed this.

“We’ll take covered carriages, and use horses from the garrison, not the Palace, and have musketeers driving them. The guard will be small, but our best new recruits – only ones that have not met Aramis.” Porthos continued.

“Why a small guard? Surely we have more strength in numbers?”

“We need to show the King is not afraid to travel among the people, but also deter anyone with a grudge from taking a risk.” Porthos explained.

“Do you think that there’s a genuine risk of that?” d’Artagnan asked.

“No, the journey is not long and we know the route well. It passes through areas that have always been loyal to the King and tolerant of the Queen. It’s not that I’m worried about. I’m much more concerned about making sure we don’t compromise Aramis or the Queen or put them in a position where they compromise themselves.” Athos replied.

“Do we tell Treville?”

“No.” said Porthos firmly. “He doesn’t need to know. It would just be one person worried about this trip. Not to mention a very long uncomfortable conversation that frankly I think we can all do without. We haven’t told the men the nature of the mission yet either, just told them to be prepared the day after tomorrow. The fewer people who know the destination and the passengers the better.”

“So, we’re all agreed on this plan?” Athos checked. Porthos and d’Artagnan nodded. “If the Queen remains inside with Constance and Yvette, and Aramis stays away, I think it will be fine.”

* * *

 

The next morning Renaud was dispatched to Argenteuil with the letter to Yvette. They chose Renaud specifically, because they knew his horse (a distinctive chestnut mare, small but very fast, and purchased from Bertrand) would be instantly recognised on his approach to the stables, giving Aramis the chance to conceal himself. However, they needn’t have worried. Aramis was usually busy seeing patients in the mornings, and was not at the farmhouse when Renaud arrived.

Yvette greeted him and offered him refreshments but before penning a carefully-worded reply. “We are humbled to receive such special guests and will make every preparation to ensure their visit is as comfortable and successful as possible.”

Porthos nodded approvingly when Athos showed him the reply later that afternoon. “She’s a smart woman, that Yvette, and more sensible than her brother.”

“That isn’t hard.” Athos commented with a wry smile.

But they were not entirely right in their assessment.

When Aramis returned from seeing patients in the early afternoon, and Yvette handed him Athos’s letter, the thoughts and emotions that flooded through him were certainly far from sensible. He turned very pale, and sat down heavily. Yvette ordered the children out of the kitchen and sat down with him.

“I must leave.” He said flatly. “I’ll go tonight and return the day after tomorrow.”

Yvette said nothing.

“I cannot be here. Not when they visit.”

“Don’t you want to help Bertrand pick out some potential horses for the Dauphin first?”

Aramis didn’t even need to think about it. He knew exactly which horse he would choose for his son, _her_ son, he reminded himself. The beautiful three year old mahogany-chestnut gelding with the white forelegs. A horse fit for a young King. He had the look of an Arab about him, and was little wary of strangers but with a pleasant disposition when he was familiar with someone, and a surprising turn of speed when pushed. He was still too young to carry a musketeer into a battle, but had been ridden regularly for a couple of months by one of his nephews who was a few years older than the Dauphin, and was almost ready to hunt.

“The mahogany gelding?” suggested Yvette, reading his mind.

“Yes. Or perhaps the ebony mare with the white flash on her throat.”

Yvette nodded. They were both superb animals, and had been reserved for the regiment. They were silent for a moment: Aramis imagining the Dauphin riding the gelding; imagining Anne’s face as her son set off to hunt; images of Anne suddenly flooding his mind and robbing him of sense; Yvette watching her brother’s face carefully. He shook himself out of his reverie. “I should leave.” he said.

Yvette hesitated. “Don’t you want to see her?”

“Of course I want to see her!” he replied “But I cannot risk it. I cannot risk being seen and betraying us both.”

“What if there was a way to see her and not be seen?”

Aramis looked incredulous “With respect, Yvette, have you gone completely mad?”

“Perhaps,” she acknowledged, “but don’t you see, René, look at what Athos has written. _Madame d’Artagnan believes the Queen might like to rest after the journey, and asked that you prepare a room. We will send guards ahead to do a sweep of the property shortly before arrival. Please note that this is no reflection on your family’s honour, merely a standard precaution._ ”

“What are you suggesting?”

“If the property has already been checked, will there be a guard with the Queen while she’s resting?”

“Outside her door, but not in the room with her, not assuming that Constance is with her.”

“And Constance would never betray either of you.”

Aramis shook his head. “You’re insane. We cannot risk it.”

“Think about it. Remember that time you were playing hide-and-go-seek with the children and you couldn’t find Lucille anywhere? Where did you last see her?”

Aramis frowned, “In one of the attic rooms. She completely vanished. I couldn’t find her anywhere. I never did find out where she went.”

Yvette grinned. “There’s a secret chamber behind the wardrobe. She knew you didn’t know about it, so she hid in there!”

“I checked behind the wardrobe, I felt nothing!” he responded astonished.

“That’s because it doesn’t feel any different from the panelling. It only opens if you push it in exactly the right spot, and you can’t when the wardrobe’s in front of it.”

“But how did she move the wardrobe without me hearing?”

“She didn’t have to. The back panel of the wardrobe slides out. You slip inside the wardrobe, slide the back across, push on the panel, and then slide the back of the wardrobe across, and close the panel. Ingenious, isn’t it?”

“How come _we_ never found it?”

“Because we never looked for it. It was the children that discovered it, and only told us about it during the war, when Bertrand and I felt it prudent to hide our assets in case we were raided. We were once, while we were at church. The thieves turned the house upside down but they didn’t find it. They had to content themselves with taking some of the less recognisable horses.”

Yvette smiled at her brother. “It’s very cramped, but just big enough to conceal you.”

“Yvette, I can’t. It’s too great a risk. What if they find it?”

“They won’t. _You_ didn’t – and you were looking for a hiding place. How closely will Athos order the musketeers to search a house he already knows? They’ll focus on the stables and the outdoor areas.”

“They _will_ check the room that’s been prepared for the Queen.”

“Of course, but _that_ closely?”

“No,” Aramis shook his head, “I can’t risk it. Athos might trust you, but he also knows me well enough to expect me to do something stupid.”

“We won’t tell anyone, not even Bertrand. We’ll talk to the children tonight, explain that Treville and the King believe you to be in the monastery and that your name is not to be mentioned. You’ll leave the house in the morning as normal, and while Bertrand and the children are busy preparing the stables, I’ll sneak you back in through the back door and conceal you in the cubby-hole while preparing the room for the Queen.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Aramis sighed, “but these things are _never_ that easy.”

“Think about it, René. When will you get another chance to see her? Sleep on it. Tell me your decision in the morning.”

Needless to say, Aramis did not get much sleep that night.

A few hours away in Paris, neither did Anne or the musketeers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave this on a bit of a cliffhanger, but I've had some unexpectedly good news that's going to take me to the other side of Australia, so I'm unlikely to be able to write or update for several months. I rushed to get this chapter finished, as I'm keen to keep moving the story forwards. Enjoy, and my apologies!


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